Ordinary People
by Redcurl
Summary: UPDATED! After the events of "Thor", Loki lands outside of London. With the help of a demon and a consulting criminal, a plan to conquer the city is set into motion. Two hunters, a consulting detective and an American secret agency try to stop the alliance. A Sherlock/Supernatural/Marvel crossover! No copyright infringement intended. Please review! All comments are appreciated!
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: This is a Sherlock/Supernatural/Thor crossover which I'm working on. Please review and tell me what you think!

* * *

_All the world's a stage_

He fell and fell and fell. Stars flashed by, turned into long streaks of light, out of his reach. Long distances away, he saw planets and clusters of comets. The rainbow bridge glittered above him. Glassharp, multicoloured pieces from the broken parts of the bridge had fallen around him, but now he was too far away, and the edges of the bridge far above him started to get blurry. The outstretched hand had long ago disappeared out of sight; the cry of his name silenced, even though, if he closed his eyes, he could still hear the echo of his brother's desperate cry in his mind: "Loki!"

He lost consciousness from time to time. When he opened his eyes, the world looked the same. Flashes of star light, comets, distant planets - all just different shapes of tightly packed star dust. He closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable end to his fall.

When he opened his eyes again, he realized he must have fallen out of consciousness again. He was lying in a huge hole, on solid ground. His body was hurting; an uncommon but not completely unpleasant sensation. The pain woke him up. His body was sending him a brutal message, reminding him that he was still alive. The cold air stinged the bare skin on his face and hands. He started moving his fingers, waking them back to life. He unsteadily got up on his feet and climbed out of the crater. He was standing on a patch of grass, next to a small road leading to a big, abadoned, sheet metal building. He ran his fingers through his black hair, comming the long strands backwards. He started walking down the road, limpering. He passed an empty parking place and reached a somewhat bigger road, where a couple of cars passed by. 'I'm in Midgard', Loki thought to himself. 'The world my brother has fallen in love with. These pathetic humans, ignorant to what happens around them, believing themselves to be the center of the universe. They have yet to meet their superior. Someone ought to teach them, and my brother, who their true masters are.' The hatred absoring his whole being, born from bitter jealousy, inferiority, misguided acts of love and pure anger, having lead to the attempt to sacrifice his own damaged life, turned in his heart, as he was observing a couple of other humans pass by in their car, from the deepest shade of grief, to the darkest shade of hatred, feeling his being with purpose. Dark thoughts passed through his mind: 'The humans are weak, pathetic, in their struggles for individuality, for freedom... Freedom. What good has freedom ever done for them? They aren't capable of leading themselves, these weak, stupid creatures.' He could take the world his brother loved and show him, and his father, that he could fulfill his position as rightful king and ruler. Loki stepped out into the middle of the road. A big SUV approaching him quickly broke to a stop in front of him and the driver opened his door and stepped outside:

"What the hell do you think you're doing? Are you fucking high or something? I could have run you over! What did you..."

He stopped at the sight of Loki's appearance; the long, green cape, the leather clothing and the armour, all torned and misshaped by the hard landing. Loki guessed that he had some marks on his body, but the pain was already decreasing, subdued by the overwhelming sensation of new purpose. Loki smiled at the man and walked up to the jeep. The driver stared at him, his mouth slightly open. He spoke again, almost in a whisper:

"Who are you?"

Loki grabbed the man's throat and lifted him up in the air a few inches.

"I am Loki, of Asgard, and I am burdened with glorious purpose."

Loki set the man down on the ground again. He trembled in front of him. Loki walked around to the other side of the car and opened the passenger door.

"Get in."

The SUV drove off at high speed on the lonely road, under a starlit night sky, bringing a god to the city of London.

* * *

In the heart of the city, a man was watching the sky. He was standing on a balcony, twelve floors up in a steel building covered in glass, which shone in light blue, reflecting the street lights, throwing the sounds of the streets at him, diverted into distant, incomprehensible echoes of voices, speeding cars and the occasional, even bass beat of a piece of music, as a door was opened to a warmer, more crowded place of socializing or entertainment, where the people of London went this autumn night to get their weekly fix of distraction, and to fall... and how they fell.

They fell out into the street, sending out odours of sex and alcohol, animalistic hormones and testosterone, which travelled up the building of glass and reached the man on the balcony, and he watched their dance of tragedy, and he lowered his head, took a sip from his glass of whisky and felt the dry, heavy drink stick to his gum and throat, drying out before it reached his stomach. He watched the people of the street through the swirls of amber in his glass and wondered, quietly, if he was alone this night, in watching the people on the streets like performers on a stage, dancing, acting and talking in predictable movements, as if their steps had been drawn out beforehand on a map, like a game of chess or a mathematical calculation. At that moment, the man's phone rang, distracting him from any further reflections. He picked it up from the pocket of his coat and answered it:

"Mycroft Holmes. Yes. I see. Similar to the event in America? Yes, it's definitely relevant to look into. Keep me posted."

The man emptied his glass and went inside the flat.

* * *

A few kilometres away, a woman was lying on a sofa; her blonde hair spread out over a small pillow. A piece of music was playing. She let her fingers tap the melody on the fabric of the sofa, moved them in the air, as she was weaving a fabric from the notes. A round glass of white wine was balancing on the edge of the table, forgotten. The woman sank down into the sofa, closed her eyes and felt herself being lifted up into the air. She imagined a large rabbit hole that she was falling down, with small bokshelves and candles in the walls, passing her by, her head turned towards the sky. She was waiting for the ground, but it never came, and as her waken fantasy passed into a dream, she kept falling, a smile on her face.

* * *

The water twirled in the sink, flushing down a stream of water. The young man rinsed his toothbrush and turned off the water. He put the toothbrush in its holder and closed the door of the bathroom cabinet. He stopped, put his hands on the sink and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked into the depth of big, dark brown eyes. His eyes looked glossy on the surface, even calm in some lights, but underneath the fragile, transparent layer, there was deep darkness, unruly chaos, violent, vibrating madness. The man stared at his darkened soul, lost in the swirling, dark sea, and he could feel, really _feel_, the gears of his mind turning, conjuring innovative ideas, forming patterns. His level of boredom had long ago reached an agonizing, unbearable point, and his mind hungrily and ferociously sought what he desired most, the only desire which mattered: distraction. He was bored. Bored out of his mind. The man turned on the water again, counted the swirls. He gathered water in the palms of his hands and let it rinse through his hair. He splashed water over his face and started smearing it with a cleansing gel. He washed his face with water and looked back up at the mirror, his hands on the sink, water dripping down on the floor and on his tshirt. He stared into the darkness and imagined cleaning off the layer of skin which kept the face underneath invisible for the rest of the world. He flashed his teeth to the mirror and hissed at it, letting out a glimpse of the monster underneath the smooth, flawless skin and deep, dark eyes.

"Jim? Are you coming to bed?"

Using his real name... Another glimpses of the monster. But he hadn't been able to resist. Vanity, maybe. Or his boredom reaching dangerous peaks.

"In a minute, doll."

Jim Moriarty patted his face with a towel and ran it quickly through his hair. He hung the towel on its rack and smeared lotion on his face. He covered one side of his face while he was doing this, and as this side fell into shadow, he could feel the darkness in his covered eye growing, and the other, visible half of his mouth smiled.

* * *

Through the streets surrounding Baker Street, on the northern side of Marylebone Road, a sound travelled past closed windows and caught the attention of a few people, passing by 221B Baker Street, who instinctively switched to the other side of the street. It was the sound of breaking glass. Mrs Hudson came into the living room of the apartment on the second floor.

"Sherlock... What are you doing?"

"It's an experiment, Mrs Hudson. I am investigating the effect of the resonance of broken glass on the human ear's perception of the sound of a violin."

As another glass broke from being heated from underneath by a torch, Sherlock Holmes picked up his violin and played two long notes.

"You better clean this up before John comes home."

"He's been away?"

"For several hours!"

Mrs Hudson left the apartment and went back to her own while Sherlock Holmes kept playing on his violin, cradling the citizen of Baker Street to sleep.

* * *

John Watson felt unease. He was watching London from behind the window of a taxi cab, taking him from the house of an old friend in the outskirts of Notting Hill. He had enjoyed a pleasant and, as the evening went on and a second wine bottle was opened, increasingly relaxed evening with Stanley and his wife Sarah, who he had met for the first time. They had competed in making Sarah laugh when retelling exaggerated versions of old memories, of which the details were long ago forgotten and had to be made up again, while the other one laughingly protested to how the younger version of himself was being portrayed. Sarah had laid her hand on Stanley's arm and their fingers had circled around each other in a perfectly coordinated, unconscious movement. He had left them standing in the hallway; she leaning towards the doorframe to the hallway after giving him a polite, but warm hug, and he with his hand on John's shoulder, repeating the invitation to a last change barbeque next Sunday. He had promised he would try to come and smiled politely when they encouraged him to bring that new roommate of his, the intriguing detective. When he walked down the gravelled path towards the taxi, he saw, through the corner of his eye, the lights going out in the hallway. In the cab, the feeling which wouldn't let him go had started to grow. It wasn't until he got out of the cab, payed the driver and started walking up to the door leading to the apartment and heard the sound of the violin that he realized what the feeling which had been so acute a moment ago was: loneliness. On his way up the stairs, the sound of the violin growing stronger, he tried the feeling, tasted it on the tip of his tongue before it escaped him, and wondered if Sherlock ever got lonely. He walked into the apartment and said hello to Sherlock, who answered him in the same way. Sherlock was standing by the window, where he usually stood when playing his violin. On his way to the kitchen, John saw that the deep green curtains, which had been hanging in one of the windows, now were lying on the floor between the desk and the chairs, covered in broken glass. He decided to ignore it for now and went into the kitchen to start the kettle.


	2. Chapter 2

_An unknown visitor_

It's strange how an abandoned, lonely, quite place, which hasn't seen much life for the last years, except for the occasional squirrel, a family of rats, some leaves passing by, pushed forward by the wind, and heavy rainfalls, whicb the sunlight many times have dried out since the last human steps disturbed the quiet of these grounds, could find itself once again being trampled down by dozens of pairs of boots, all provoked by a single man, making a grand entrance before quietly leaving the place, leaving behind him a big hole in the ground, no more than 12 hours earlier. With the human boots came various testing equipment, vehicles and, at first, completely unnecessary security barriers, which proved to fulfill a purpose when the word started spreading among curious locals and the media about some investigation of a crater. The attention devoted to this occurance would die out, in lack of stimulance in the form of new facts or speculations, before the Londoners and the world's attention would be completely occupied with another phenomena, stealing their full attention, fascination and horror.

For now, the only clue to things to come, was the mysterious crater and the fact that the supposed meteorite, which had created the crater, was gone. Mycroft Holmes had been updated on the few pieces of facts that they had about the situation, which hadn't been very helpful in pointing at a different explanation than the one which more and more seemed to be the only possible one. Mycroft had consorted with members of the government as well as with representatives from other governmental agencies. They had agreed on the decision to contact the Americans and, more precisely, SHIELD, the American agency which had dealt with the alien encounter which had started only weeks before this situation, in the same way: with a mysterious crater.

The name Mycroft Holmes had some barring on the other side of the Atlantic as well and his phonecall, being made from his leather chair in front of the fireplace in his apartment, was immediately connected to Agent Coulson, a man in a leading position at SHIELD who, despite his calm and introvert personality, had proven to be a man of great persistence with a striking ability to keep calm and make smart choices in previously unseen situations. Holmes had deducted this from reading the documentation on the alien encounter in the US, during which Coulson had played an active part. He was therefore pleased with being connected straight to the agent, who answered his phone after the second signal.

"Coulson."

"Agent Coulson, this is Mycroft Holmes, with the British government."

"Yes, off course, Mr Holmes. We have been told that you have a situation similar to the one we just dealt with."

Straight to the point. Holmes appreciated this.

"I am going to be completely straight with you, Agent Coulson. This evening, we discovered an unknown object passing into our atmosphere, landing outside of London. I am positive you have observed this as well."

"Yes, we saw the object and, considering our very recent dealings with aliens, we take a great interest in it."

"Are any other agencies involved?"

"No and we would like to keep it that way, Mr Holmes."

An indication of his contacts at the CIA? Mycroft smiled. The man surely was well informed.

"I understand. We keep it close to home on this side as well."

"We appreciate that, Mr Holmes. Do you have any updates on the event?"

Mycroft Holmes could appreciate Coulson's directness, but he didn't appreciate not being in control of a conversation regarding an investigation he was in charge of.

"We have investigated the crater and searched the premises. We haven't located the source of the crater. There are however footsteps leading away from the sight and ending at a road nearby, leading towards, among other places, central London."

"I see. We haven't heard from the Asgardian Thor, who we consider an ally, nor any news of his brother, Loki."

"Would you expect Thor to contact you if he chose to return to Earth?"

"We are not sure."

"And Loki?"

"The only intel on Loki is the one we have got from the people involved in the incident in New Mexico, especially Dr Selvig and Dr Foster. We're also studying Norse mythology, but I suppose we can assume that legend has been mixed with reality."

"We are quite certain that we have a visitor from Asgard. We will just have to wait and see if he turns out to be friendly or not."

"Contact us if we can be of assistant, Mr Holmes."

"We will do that, Agent Coulson."


	3. Chapter 3

_Hell is empty and all the devils are here_

The SUV was speeding down the M1 in a speed which was much higher than the driver normally would feel comfortable with, but he had gotten some comments from the otherwise quiet passenger about the slow moving vehicle, so he didn't dare to do anything than to step down harder on the gas pedal. Also, he was hoping that his passenger, once he arrived in London, where he guessed his final destination was, would let him go. He was changing lanes, passing car after car, his hands trembling. He almost didn't dare to, but couldn't resist to, occasionally steal a glance at his passenger who sat huddled up in the seat, which looked surprisingly small for him, one hand on his stomach and the other one on his leg. The passenger stretched his leg or back from time to time and grimaced, as though he was in pain. The driver once again turned his eyes towards the road, forcing himself to turn down the volume off the voice in his head, screaming in panic, worrying for his safety, for his life, so that he could focus on driving past two more cars in the dark, autumn night, when a voice suddenly was heard in the car:

"Hello, boys."

The car made a sudden jerk to the left and flew over two lanes on three wheels, narrowly passing a small Toyota with its pitching horn sounding, before coming to a halt, tires screaming, on the roadside, threatening to fall over before the SUV remembered its four wheel drive and landed its fourth wheel on the road again. The driver sat with his eyes closed, fingers circled around the steering wheel, locked in place, for twenty somewhat seconds, before he found his breath again. The sudden, sharp intake of air hurt his lungs, but the air helped to waken his mind, which found a well-hidden storage of adrenaline, of which the driver thought he had completely run out, probably saved for near death car accidents involving roughed up ancient royal soldiers and bodyless voices. The voice, however, pretty quickly, once the driver from shear fear decided to open his eyes, turned out not to be bodyless at all, but, was his best guess, belonged to the man sitting in the backseat of the car. The man in the backseat. Who had jumped into the car, without opening a door. On the highway. The driver's mind rushed through questions to which the only answers he found were question marks, trying to find a possible explanation.

During the mean time, the passenger had turned his head to observe the man in the backseat. To the driver's alerted fear and confusion, there was a smile on his passenger's face.

"Nice trick. What are you?"

What? Had he said _what_? No, he must have mistaken. But then again, what human could do what the man had just did? His rushed, adrenaline pumped mind started seeing connections it had ignored until this recent incident just made his night, if possible, even weirder. The strange light he had seen in the sky, the loud bang which had shaken the ground from the place where what he guessed was a meteorite, which he had thought that he would take his grandchild to see the next day, had landed. The bruised man in the torned, strange clothing, coming towards him on the road, lifting him up in the air with his bare hand, his _hand, _and the words he had used... What was it he had called himself? Loke? Loki? The name had sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it.

"That was one hell of a landing. It peaked my interest. How the mighty fall." The man in the backseat spoke in a deep, raspy voice.

"What is it to you, human?" The passenger sounded slightly irritated. He used _human_ like an insult

"But I'm not human. I haven't been for centuries. There's more to this world than you know, frost giant." The man reached over, a piece of paper in his hand.

"Curious? I am. Meet me here. We'll talk."

The passenger hesitated, then took the note.

"I thought you would come about. Trust me. I'll make it worth your while."

With those words, he was gone.

* * *

The blonde hair was moving on the dark green pillow and a pair of grey eyes were opened. The woman stretched her back, making a moaning sound through closed lips, bending her body like a cat's, before falling down on the sofa again, blinking with just awoken eyes, stretching her neck, fingers tensing into claws and then relaxing again. Her blonde hair spread out over the pillow. After a minute or so, she got up and walked to the windows of the room. Gazing down over the quiet street, she closed her eyes again, but the feeling of falling didn't want to return. She struggled with it, lifted her arms slightly, tried to get back the feeling of air, lightness, of falling comfortably and with anticipation to a brand new world, but her feet remained heavy on the ground; her eyes the solid grey of the darkening, quiet, predictable London street.

* * *

The autumn evening in London turned slowly into night. It was one of those evenings when the air was cold, but the people had been heated by the strong, warm sunlight only a cold, brisk autumn day can bring, and the heat lingered in the air throughout the evening, before its breaths could no longer fight the oncoming coldness of the night, and it fell into a calm, restfull sleep, letting the night sweep over the streets, buildings and parks, and even slowly start to freeze the more shallow waters of the city. The frost started showing on the mirror in the flat. It started in the corners. Small, icy crystals, moving over the blank surface with a crackling sound. It stopped when it covered about one fourth of the mirror. He touched the frost with his fingers, but it didn't feel cold, just sharp and slightly wet. He looked at his face in the mirror. He saw the frost reflecting in his eyes; ice crystals in deep, dark wells.

The calls from the bedroom had gone quiet. Now he heard the deep breaths of someone sleeping. How boring. How... predictable. On an impulse, he grabbed a bottle of hair gel, poured some in his hand, spread it out over the palms of his hands in an even layer and started running his palms through his hair, using his fingers to comb it into place, fixating a part of his hair to the side. He was meticulous about his appearance. He went into the livingroom, grabbing his phone on the way from a drawer in the hallway, and took a pair of earphones connected to the phone and put them in his ears. Bach came soaring through the small speakers, complementing his movements. He put on a white shirt, a black jacket, a dark tie, black leather boots and a dark blue coat, which he had picked up from the Alexander McQueen shop on Bond Street earlier the same day, feeding of the compliments he had gotten from the shop assistant when trying on the coat. He went back to the bathroom, gathered the products he had used in a small bag, stopped in front of the mirror in the hall, combing his hair into place, straightening the collar of the coat, before leaving the flat. He pushed the button for the lift and waited, drumming the melody to the music with his left hand. For probably the last time, he stepped into the elevator and pushed the button marked "G". From the pocket of his coat, where he also had copies to the keys to the apartment, he picked up a memory card and put it in his phone, casually looking through the copy he had have made of the contents of the woman's mobile phone. As he stepped out onto the street, he turned up the volume of the music and took pleasure in feeling the coat flutter behind him in the light, autumn wind, turning up the collar again, and even flashing a smile he had practiced many times in the mirror, to a couple walking by, seeing them smile back at him. If Jim Moriarty had turned down the volume of the music, he might have heard the faint echoes of a violin, playing the same notes as on the recording in his ears, finding its way through quiet streets.


	4. Chapter 4

_Empty thoughts and silent keyboards_

John Watson was sitting with a laptop in his lap, a steaming cup of tea next to him, in what had become his chair in the livingroom of the flat on Baker Street. He found that he had, out of habit, opened his blog, even though he had nothing to write. There were some messages waiting for him, wondering if a new story was coming up. His blog had now thousands of readers and the number had been steadily rising for the last couple of months. He looked at the number of visitors. He had gotten used to the fact that thousands of people were reading his blog and that even more knew about him and Sherlock from the newspapers whicb had been writing about the detective and his blogger, making more or less explicit suggestions about the nature of their relationship. John avoided writing about his or Sherlock's personal lives in detail on the blog, but he hadn't been able to resist including, in passing, a mentioning about a date he had been on or a current relationship of his, even though they had a tendency to not last long. He remembered what Sherlock had said to him at the restaurant when they were working their first case together: "I consider myself married to my job." John had begun to wonder whether Sherlock ever had been in a relationship, if he found any interest in men or women, sexually or romantically. An unusually mean comment from Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft, came to mind. Mycroft had discussed the case of Irene Adler and had, after Sherlock noted that sex doesn't alarm him, with a nasty smile in his voice asked: "How would you know?" The question was never answered and John couldn't tell if Sherlock was hurt or upset by the comment or not.

The last updated text on the blog was months old. The Hounds of Baskerville. He had written about the case, but left out some details, after being strongly adviced to by representatives from the military. The case of Irene Adler, he hadn't written about at all, except the incident of the man who was killed by his own boomerang. No one had have to tell him not to make those events public. The results of this was that the blog had been quite quiet for some time, as well as the messages and comments on the blog, asking for new stories. But John Watson had nothing to write. He and Sherlock had lately been involved in events he couldn't reveal anything off to the readers; events with much more serious and long gone consequences than anything they faced before. Events which weren't completely over, since the criminal mastermind controlling them was still out there and he had promised to burn Sherlock, if they didn't stay out of his way. The last thing they needed, was more attention from Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock had been unusually quiet about the case of Jim Moriarty. He had in fact hardly said a word about him since their last encounter through Irene Adler, whom he didn't talk about either, though John suspected that was more due to his feelings towars The Woman; sadness, respect, fascination, maybe regret. Regarding Jim Moriarty, John had the feeling Sherlock felt some of the same feelings: respect, fascination, but also strong dislike and a willingness to stand in his way. He was, after all, a consultant detective, willing to and persistent regarding assisting the police departments and the ordinary people of London, if their cases were interesting enough, rather than setting off criminal plans and seeing to that they were fulfilled, or pulling strings tied to figures of the London underworld, watching them dance.

At the moment, Sherlock was sitting at the desk in the livingroom, probably updating his own website with the results of the experiment with the violin and the broken glass. Watching his intense gaze on the screen, his fingers smattering over the keyboard, the unruly curls and his leg jumping on the red, patterned carpet, John thought to himself that they desperately needed a case, the more time consuming and tiering the better, to keep Sherlock's overactive intellect occupied and his own nightmares, which seemed to come more frequently and more intense during days which lacked distraction, in check. His nightmares about the war; the defeaning bombs, the screams of wounded soldiers, the panic which at some few occasions had threatened to overpower him, had more and more given place to dreams which in different shapes replayed his memories of meeting Moriarty. The kidnapping, the bomb strapped to his body, Moriarty's voice in his ear, the concern in Sherlock's voice, words he'd never heard him say before with such alarm, such fear (are you alright? are you alright?), preparing once more to die, trying to graspe the absurdity of what was playing out before his eyes, like a play where the charcters didn't speak or behave like you expected them to do, where there was something vibrating in the air between the two enemies, the two opposite poles, testing their similarities and their differences with equal amounts of admiration and dislike, like magnets inevitably drawn to each other even though they would explode on impact.

Looking at Sherlock, he wondered how much Sherlock thought about Moriarty. Watching the news, scanning Internet sites and turning the pages of newspapers, he must be, just as John was, looking for signs of Moriarty's activities, which had suddenlt silenced since the trial after the attempted robbery of the Crown Jewels. John hadn't found anything he was sure of was Moriarty, but that hadn't helped him feel more secure. The master criminal was waiting, biding his time. And all they could do was to wait. They needed a case.


	5. Chapter 5

_With your collar turned up against the wind_

The southwestern parts of Regent's Park were quiet, almost empty, this autumn evening. The huge park still served a purpose of offering a place to breath, where one could gaze over flat, wide stretches of grass, and be able to walk as one pleased, without walking into another human or having to watch out for cars, cabs or double-deckers. A couple walked by, holding hands, curled up to each other. A jogger ran past them, the intense, fast beat of a dubstep song leaking out from her headphones, and turned to the other side of the path to avoid a man walking down the trail, the collar of his dark blue coat turned up against the wind. All of them passed the group of trees where a man was strolling around, seemingly waiting. The man was dressed in a black coat, a black suit with a black shirt and a grey, patterned tie. He was quite short and of average build. His brown eyes were charismatic, smiling in a mischievous way, as though he was plotting some scheme he couldn't wait to tell you about.

From a distance, another man was walking towards the group of trees over the wide fields of dry, autumn grass, along the quiet, dark lake. The park was dark, except for the light from the stars and the moon above in the cloudless sky. The two men met in the shadows under the crowns of the trees; a few leaves falling down from the branches. The men's faces were partly lit by the moonlight.

"Loki. It's a pleasure. How nice of you to come."

The man under the trees greeted the one approaching. Loki had almost stopped limping, his body healing quickly. He could feel the cuts and bruises on his body and face slowly disappearing. Soon, he would be completely healed. Then, all he needed was to have his clothing sewn together and his armour mended.

"Who are you and how do you know my name?"

"The name's Crowley. Like you, I'm not from around these parts of the world. I'm a demon. The King of Hell, or Hel, you might call it. I'm a bit vague on the details when it comes to your mythology. Anyhow, we got business to discuss. Common interests, you and I."

Loki wasn't unfamiliar with demons, though this was his first time speaking to one. Although he wasn't surprised that the demon had heard of him, the fact that he had known who he was, and where to find him, still left some questions unanswered.

The demon claimed to be the king of Hel. He wondered to himself what powers the demon possessed and what these common interests were, which the demon spoke of. Loki was painfully aware of the fact that he was in desperate need of allies. He had been thrown out of his home after he had failed to take over Midgard and subjugate the humans. He had been betrayed by his own family after he had chosen to, for them, attempt to murder his biological father, the Frostgiant Laufey. He was completely, utterly alone, disgraced, cast out, abandoned and betrayed, while his warthirsty, unworthy, full of himself brother sat on the throne which should rightfully be his, wielding a power he should be the one controlling, rather than his impulsive brother, driven by sentiments and pride.

Still, he wasn't sure he could trust Crowley.

"How do you know of me?"

"I keep myself informed. I have sources on Earth and with connections to Asgard. Also, your world and your history on Earth is well documented. Your fall, I saw myself. It was hard to miss, to be honest with you."

"You are the King of Hel?"

"Yes. The new regime."

"And your desires beyond that?"

Crowley smiled, but the look he gave Loki was serious.

"I have no desires to rule the Earth. Too many... humans. Besides, every tried ruling over hundreds of thousands of demons? Wicked, simple minded, unruly basterds, the whole lot of 'em. Nevertheless, we are expanding, in the near future. Lots to do. Giving me a headache just thinking about it." Crowley sighed.

"So you think you know my business here?" Loki guessed.

"The King of Asgard fell and landed on Earth. You need someone on your side, desperately. Luckily for you, I find you... intriguing."

Crowley looked at him intensely; the hint of a smile in his eyes.

"So you believe I desire to rule the humans?"

"They need to be ruled."

"What interests do you have in the humans?" Loki was aware of the fact that he yet had to find out why Crowley offered to ally himself with the fallen god.

"Humans mean something I find myself lacking... at least in the number I need ´em. Souls. Call it insurance."

"Are you expecting a war?"

"The angels are busy with other matters, but if they ever decide to reconcile, they might need to find another target on which to let out the side effects of their broken hearts after their daddy abandoned them. Such frustration, anger, violence - you can't... well, I guess you _can _imagine."

Loki remained quiet; closing his fists. Crowley continued talking while walking around in the shadows of the crowns of the trees.

"The more alarming situation is after all handled with. Lucifer is locked up with Michael, fixated in an eternal war on fifteen square metres. All that anger and brotherly love, cramped into and magnified by their current location, and no way to escape the other. Imagine that..."

Loki suddenly became aware of that Crowley had stopped and was looking at him. He met the other man's gaze, then turned around to hide an impossible tear of sorrow and anger in the corner of his eye, suddenly furious with himself. Sentiments... Such weakness had to be undone, pushed down to a place from where it couldn´t escape. With his back to Crowley, he asked:

"What do you suggest?"

Crowley closed the distances between them in a few, fast steps, coming up behind him, hissing in his ear.

"Break free of the cage keeping _you_ locked to _your_ brother, endlessly seeking his appreciation and confirmation. Show him that you were born to be a king, made to rule."

"And your part in this, demon?" He wasn't going to pretend that the same idea had escaped his mind. The idea, this initial impulse from when he had realized he wasn't dead, hadn't left his thoughts but rather grown, infesting with increased strength in his mind, feeding on his love and his hate for the would-be king who wasn't his brother and the god who wasn't his father, fueled by his failure, his humiliation, drawn forwards by the one thing that made it possible for him to look at himself in the mirror; the belief that he was still a god and a god needed subjects, and who better than the people for whom his brother had forsaken his love for him? However, he wasn't going to let himself be fooled by this lesser creature, breathing words of power and redemption in his ear. He wanted to know what Crowley thought that he would gain from this and what help he could offer. Crowley, who seemed to have read his thoughts, or who just finally had decided to answer his question, continued:

"As I said, if the angels ever reconcile and decide that the demons are once again their major enemy, I might find myself in the need of soldiers. Souls. Hell has plenty to use, but the angels are, I regret to say, powerful, also against demons, and my army is not as impressing as it was before the whole situation with Lucifer. It seems like, in this context, size does matter."

"So you expect me to hand you... souls? In the form of... dead humans?"

"Now, we shouldn´t jump ahead to situtions yet unknown. We are talking about a completely hypothetical scenario..." Crowley was doing his sales talk. Loki interrupted him.

"Oh, but I like this." He had turned around and was standing close to Crowley, towering over the somewhat shorter man, a wicked smile on his lips, his eyes gleaming.

"The one who claims himself to be the King of Hel, bargaining for human souls, in the exhange of lending me an army and leading me to a throne on Earth."

"Don´t flatter yourself, darling. I intend to lead you on to the right track and then send you on your way. Rather point you in the right direction, than to personally be involved."

"What good could you do for me?"

"In that respect, it is not about me. Rather about a business companion of mine. Made a deal with him about a year ago. Managed to sneak out of it, the little bastard."

Crowley smiled and continued:

"He calls himself a criminal consultant. I thought that could be right up your alley."

"A human?" Loki made no attempt to hide his disgust.

Crowley was silent for a few seconds.

"I wouldn't make the mistake of thinking of him like _a human_."


	6. Chapter 6

_Ticking hearts and flaming minds_

The apartment was quiet. The alarm hadn´t been activated and the surveillance camera hadn´t caught anything but the neighbor´s dog, which had escaped the other night when Jim Moriarty, sitting in front of his computer, dressed in a pair of loose-fitting cotton trousers, a white t-shirt and a pale cardigan, had been in the woman´s apartment, plotting to steal her phone in the morning, while pretending to be interested in whatever shit they had been watching on TV. The little dog ran past on the computer screen and then came back, sniffing at his door, followed by the neighbour; a woman in her 40s, dressed in a dressing gown, who picked up the small dog and petted it while walking back to her own apartment.

Moriarty left his computer and walked into the kitchen to make himself some coffee. He started the coffee machine and brought his double espresso back to the computer. He put the memory card from his mobile phone into the computer and continued scrolling through its content. The woman was an MP, working with the Ministry of Defence, and Moriarty had expected to find information on the work with explosive material research which the Ministry supported financially. He was disappointed. It turned out that the MP protected her work related secrets better than she she secured her private ones. However, knowledge of her troubled marriage, her meaningsless friendships or her futial attempts to heal her seemingly problematic relationship to her son, was of no good to Moriarty. Her apartment hadn't proven to be a better source of any useful outcome of the relationship he had have for three months with the woman. A complete waste of time, then. He yanked the memory card from the holder and brought it to the living room, where he threw it into the fire place. Soon, he was sitting in front of the fire place, watching the memory card being consumed by the red, yellow and orange flames, melted and twisted beyond recognition, slowly turning into black smoke. The flames were being reflected in his eyes; red flames and bright sparks in the deep, bottomless darkness, consuming his calm, the few remaining traces of sanity, setting fire to the restlessness of his highly functional, overly active, heartless mind, and he lost track of time, as the flames lit up the darkness and breathed life into the dragon.

* * *

Charlotte left the apartment late and took great pleasure in joining the more busy streets around Victoria Streets. On an impulse, she walked into the tube station. It was quite late, but the tube was all but quiet. She followed after a group of tourists on their way from or to their hotel, arguing about a map of the underground which one person in the group insisted on turning the wrong way around, while a couple other members of the group were arguing at him in a foreign language which sounded quite similar to English. She stopped by the group and, with a smile and an extra thick layer of her British accent, guided the tourists on their way, before taking a spontaneous turn and ending up on the platform of the Victoria line, where a train just was coming in. She got on it and started thinking about where she wanted to go. She had moved into central London about two years ago, after being lucky enough to be offered to share an apartment in Victoria with a friend from school who seemed to have no problem paying insane amounts each month to live in the central parts of town, supported by, at first, her family and later by a well-paid job at a law firm, but at the same time suffered from loneliness. Charlotte, on the other hand, had never mind living outside of town, but couldn't resist the chance when given to move to Victoria. She worked at the St Pancras library in Camden and regularly took the Victoria line to work. Today was a Saturday and she had been home all day, watching movies, cleaning out the kitchen, or, well, at least, a part of the kitchen, and she had spend the evening in her sofa, alone since her room mate had been out of town for several months, with a glass of wine in front of the new episode of some detective story on TV. When the episode ended, she had turned on her stereo, lied down on the sofa and felt herself falling down, using her imagination to relax, to fall asleep. But she had woken up after only a short time and she couldn't find comfort, relaxation, ease again. She was restless and she didn't understand why.

She left the train at Warren Street station and walked down Euston Road. She was walking fast past impressive buildings whose splender had long ago lost their charm, accompanied by the sound of car engines and distant, unclear voices, not stopping or slowing down until she reached Regent's Park, where she turned right, heading into the park, hoping that the comfort and silence of the naked trees, with their bare branches moving in the wind, and the leaves crumbling and crackling under the soles of her boots, could comfort her achingly awake, wound up mind and beating heart, which kept her awake through long mornings and slow nights, better than the busy streets had proven capable of. She had poured out the wine in the sink, put on a warm coat and walked out into the cold night, feeling a few strands of warmth sneaking past the skin of her cheek, while the cold air made her shiver and pull the coat tighter around her. She soon had begun feeling warmer, but the feeling inside wasn't affected by the cold. She felt restless. Or, closer to the truth, her heart and mind were restless and wouldn't leave her in peace, but tried to get her attention without revealing their troubles. It was exhausting. It was like there was a wall in her mind, with small holes in it, protecting her from the troubles, but letting them occasionally shine through, distorted, unclear, difficult to see, to understand. She guessed she was lonely. Even all the words of all the pages of all the books at her work, with all the worlds and characters they brought to life, couldn't help her loneliness no longer. When she was surrounded by people, she desired to be alone. When she was alone, she craved company. Her heart beat out an uneaven rhythm. She hoped a walk through the park would help her calm. She needed this to change.

In the park, a couple walked past her, holding hands, protecting each other from the autumn cold. A man came walking down the path behind the couple, seemingly untroubled by the cold, dressed in a coat and wearing white headphones. Charlotte continued walking deeper into the park, towards the lake, wanting to see the trees and the stars reflected in the water.

The lake had a calming effect on her, as still water often has, and she walked around the lake, past the closed Boathouse Cafe and over the little bridge. Then she turned right and continued down the road and in among the trees. The crowns of the trees were almost bare, but the evening was still darker in this part of the park. She circled the trees. From a gathering of trees in front of her, she could her voices. She continued walking, but was careful not to disturb the couple. She didn't want to disturb some romantic meeting in the park. Suddenly, one of the voices grew louder.

"What is that supposed to mean, "thinking of him like a human"? Don't lie to me, demon. It will be the end of you."

Against her will intrigued by the voice, she stopped.

"Don't flatter yourself. Remember who you're talking to, fallen king."

A few seconds passed. Charlotte felt her feet moving closer. Soon, she saw the men and quickly hid behind a tree.

The second man continued:

"He is... different. You should make sure not to underestimate this human. He is highly intelligent and mad as a hatter." He stopped, looking at the other man.

"Listen, mate, I've been selling sin to humans for centuries and he's not like most of these oblivious, so-stupid-that-it's-cute meat bags. Jim Moriarty is as mad as he is viscious, completely unpredictable, highly intelligent, handsome and, if he wants to be, quite charming. Reminds me a bit of myself, actually."

Charlotte was feeling like she had stepped into a film. It was completely surreal. She couldn't grasp what the men were talking about. Demon, fallen king, selling sin... She tried to make sense of the statements, interpret them as metaphors, figure out what the conversation was about. The men lowered their voices and she couldn't help herself. She stepped closer and hid behind another tree. Now she could see the two men clearer. She couldn't stop looking at them. The absurdity of the situation just took another turn towards the I-must-be-dreaming-end of the scale. This was not what she had expected to be the turnout of a quiet, late evening stroll through Regent's Park. She had made sure that she had a probably quite illegal can of pepparspray and her mobile phone secure in the pocket of her coat, but none of these instruments of self defence could be used to deal with the situation her curiousity had dragged herself into. A part of her wanted to escape. But that was a small part.

The first man was dressed in a strange outfit. He had a long, green cape and some sort of armour. His clothing was ripped in places and the armour was bended and uneven. His black hair was comned back, he had a fireceness in his eyes and his posture was proud, almost regal. He was obliviously hurt. He kept switching the weight on his feet and he had bruises and cuts in his face and on his hands. While she was looking at the man, she noticed something which made his appearance seemed like the least strange part of the sight in front of her.

The cuts and bruises on the man's face were obviously, undoubtedly _mending_ themselves. She kept staring at his face and saw them disappearing in front of her eyes. Even though the ground under the tress was dimly lit, there was no doubt that something inevitably strange, supernatural, _inhuman_, was taking place in this quiet part of the London park, this ordinary, autumn evening. Demons, fallen kings, self-healing wounds... Charlotte's mind was spinning and she noticed, to her suprise, that it wasn't a completely unpleasant experience. It was like she had opened a new chapter of a book from the fantasy section of her library, and found that the characters had stepped out from the pages, visualising themselves in front of her. Or as if she hadn't woken up from her daydream, but had kept falling down the rabbit hole and landed in a brand new world. She knew that she couldn't turn back. She wasn't sure she wanted to. She needed her mind to spin. She was scared. Her heart was beating out an even, fast rhytm.

The second man didn't look at all as strange as the first one. He was dressed in a dark suit and a thick coat; a much more appropriate style of clothing for the season and for the setting. He had a dark, raspy voice.

"Moriarty doesn't crave power. He is a planner, not a ruler. That would be one difference between us, I could admit."

The first man smiled.

"Sounds like a man of my taste."

"Oh. You're hurting my feelings, fallen god." The man in the suit walked up to the man in the armour, whose face now was clean of wounds.

"I'll take you to Moriarty, so you can see for yourself."

He took out a piece of paper from his coa t pocket and handed it to the other man.

"Before I forget... If you need me again. Give me a call."

The armored man looked at the note.

"666?"

The man in the suit pointed at himself.

"The king of Hell? Remember? It comes with the job. So, what do you say? Moriarty?"

"Well, I guess that's worth a look."

"Off we go then." He made a gesture, suggesting the other man to follow him. The man with the torned clothing hesitated slightly before accompaning him in the opposite direction to where Charlotte was standing. The man was still limping slightly. He looked like he was out of place, out of his element, and as he was painfully aware of it. Charlotte hesitated; unsure of whether to follow them or walk in the opposite direction. She took a step and immediately regretted it. She froze, but it was too late. The damage was done. A cracking sound from dry leaves and a broken twig was heard from under her boot. She cursed her foolishness during the precious seconds when she waited to see if the men would react to the sound, her breath caught in her throat, frozen in place, a green cape fluttering in the wind, its owner stopping, turning, their eyes meeting. The man started walking quickly towards her and Charlotte's body reacted immediately.

She ran and couldn't stop running. Her body moved as an independent creature, on its own, separate from her conscious mind, without her controlling it. She just continued running, even though her legs started hurting and she could no longer without effort breathe air into her lungs. It stopped on the way down, making her bend over, gasping, struggling for air, and she tripped over her own feet, then over the edge of a pavement which suddenly was there and she realised that she was out on the street again, and her knees and hands hit the ground, and the world switched and turned in front of her eyes, and she had to stop and breathe, close her eyes for a second, before clenching her fists, closing in the blood runnig down her scraped hand, and standing up, not listening to the throbbing pain in her leg, forcing it to stretch out against its will, she continued to run, not looking back.

When she ran out on Euston Road, she was suddenly surrounded by people. It was a surreal feeling. She let the comfort of not being alone calm her and at the same time, she was looking around her for her pursuers, if she had any. The crowd in front of her cleared and then she saw him. The man in the suit. Looking straight at her - there was no doubt of that. His dark brown eyes calm but intense. He saw her. He had seen her. And he had come after her. Charlotte felt as if she was drowning and no one could save her. The world she had fallen into in her daydream earlier the same night, had turned into a nightmarish landscape, of which she didn't know the rules, and she just wanted to go home. When she sat in an almost empty tube carriage, no longer able to run, her hands and legs trembling from adrenaline, from fear and from pain, her heart beating, her mind still racing, she started to cry. She covered her face in her hands.

Charlotte left the underground at Victoria Station and found her way back to her apartment quicker than she thought she would. Her hands were still trembling when she fumbled with the keys to the lock. Closing the door behind her, she let out a breathe and leaned against the door, closing her eyes. For the first time since she had run from the park, she felt safe. She went into the bathroom and rinsed her hands under the sink, washing away the blood before wrapping the palm of her right hand with a thin bandage she found in the back of the cabinet. The hand didn't bleed and there were quite indistinct marks on the skin from the gravel on the ground.

Charlotte went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of red wine and emptied it quickly. She filled her glass again and took it with her into the living room, crawling down in the sofa and wrapping her arms around the blanket covering her legs. After a long time, the tremblings eased, and she could start to, in her mind, replay the scene which had taken place in front of her earlier the same night and, as so often with memories, the memory of it was weaker than the events had seemed at the time they took place. The fear, the panic, now seemed almost exaggerated, as she recalled her running through the park and the streets, and for what? A man walking towards her after she had overheard a strange conversation and another one, perhaps by chance, walking in her direction. But how had he gotten there so fast...?

"Hello, darling."

She kicked out, in one movement throwing of her blanket, backing away and trying to get up on her feet, landing with one feet on the floor, her arm around the sofa, panic rushing through her veins, twisting her body from surprise and fear, making her simultaneously ready to run and frozen in place, dreading looking up to see the source of the voice. The calm she had felt only a second earlier was completely gone. Her body now remembered in complete clarity the fear, panic and confusion from earlier. There was nowhere to escape. She looked up and saw the man in the suit standing in the doorway to the only entrance to the room. There was nowhere to go. He was smiling. Nowhere...

Her tongue finally started working and she suprised herself.

"Get out of my apartment."

The man in the suit raised an eyebrow and jerked his head back.

"Calm down, love. I just wanna talk."

Charlotte started looking around for something to use as a weapon. Her eyes came across her mobile phone lying on the table. She didn't hesitate, but threw herself after the phone. Just as her fingers were going to close around it, the phone disappeared from under her touch and she saw it flying through the air, crashing into the wall to her right, breaking into several pieces. She started at the wall and then at the man. He hadn't moved.

"You have some bite in you. I like that in a human."

"What the hell do you want?" She surprised herself again, even though her voice was cracking slightly this time she spoke.

"Don't you listen?" The man left the doorway and Charlotte leaned a bit to the left, so she saw into the kitchen, where she could see him moving around, opening a couple of cabinets. He came back soon, two glasses of wine in his hand. He put one of them down on the table in front of Charlotte.

"Don't you have anything stronger?" He looked at her like he was expecting an answer. The absurdity of the situation overwhelmed her and she grabbed onto the only available piece of sanity in their conversation. She felt as if she was drowning again.

"You want to talk?"

"Bingo! Five points to the pretty blonde."

She glanced at her phone, lying in pieces on the floor, and back up at the man. He didn't answer her unspoken question.

"So, the little chat you happened to overhear earlier..."

"How did you find me?"

He winked her question away with his hand.

"Details, details... It's not important. "

"You know what they say. The devil is in the details."

He smiled. "Cute."

"How the hell did you get in here?"

"You mean 'should you be afraid of me?' Yes, you should, cocky little thing. But you keep changing the subject. Don't you wanna know what happened in the park?"

"I want to know what happened to my phone."

The man took a big sip from his wine glass.

"Me, me, me..."

He muttered to himself.

"Typical, self centered humans..."

"Why do you keep calling me human?"

She almost wish she hadn't asked him.

"Well, Charlotte..."

She flinched at the sound of her name. He sighed and locked her gaze with his.

"It seems like this is going to be a longer night than I had expected. Have some wine."

The man took a chair belonging to the kitchen, which was standing in a corner of the room since Charlotte changed the light bulb in the lamp on the ceiling a couple of nights ago. He placed it in front of the small coffee table, which was now separating him from the sofa, in front of which Charlotte was still sitting, her arm on the discarded blanket on the sofa and her legs wrapped up on the floor. The man sat down backwards on the chair with the back of the seat facing Charlotte.

"So... where were we? Right. Back to the park. You left in a hurry."

"I was scared."

She realized what she said when she heard the words, but she didn't regret them. Somehow, it felt empowering.

"What alarmed you?"

The man's questions seemed peculiarly sincere.

"He said 'demon'."

"Typical of you humans. Bring up a god in a conversation and no one blinks an eye. Mention one little demon and everyone loses their minds."

She decided to continue with the full-on, non-hesitant approach, see how far it would get her.

"Are you a demon?"

This time, she regretted it. She sounded completely stupid.

"Listen to me, princess..."

A sudden rush of anger came back.

"I am not a princess."

"Are we gonna do this all night?"

"Are you gonna be condensending all night?"

She bit her tongue but, luckily, the man smiled. She couldn't believe that her fast tongue would decide that now was a good moment to kick in and silently cursed her temper.

"Whatever works for you."

She didn't answer.

"Fair enough. I'm gonna play nice. To answer your question; yes, I am. Now, your turn: are you still scared?"

"Quid pro quo, Clarice?"

"Something like that."

"Do all demons know movie quotes?"

"Is that what you want to know?"

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Now we are getting somewhere."


	7. Chapter 7

_Frosty fingerprints, silencing winds, shrieking shadows, restless thoughts_

The evening turned into night. A grim chill suddenly layed over the streets and the Themes was concealed under a thin layer of ice. The sudden cold kept the Londoners indoors and the streets were quieter than usual. It was a light night, with visible stars and a big moon. The sky was now calm after having been lit up by the fast moving god, falling through its layers of darkness. The streets surrounding Regent's Park saw the occasional tourist, some lonely Londoner and a stream of cars and cabs, but no one running for their life. Even Baker Street had silenced. This autumn night, many parts of the crowded, busy city were unusually, even strangely, quiet, still and empty. If someone had popped out for a quick fag or a run to the local shop, they might even have stopped and listened, since there were no sounds to be heard. But that was only for those who didn't listen carefully.

A city is a vibrant, unruly, multidimensional creature, with a language of its own. The sudden cold and the way it seeked its way into the most shielded alleys. The frost which seeked its way up the trees and leaves of Hide Park. The news stories on every TV of the strange astronomic phenomena. The guards outside of the embassies, walking around restlessly or hiding from sight in doorways. The crowded hotel rooms. The silent pubs. The shrikeing sounds of trains as they slowed down before their tube stations. Shivering fingers, pressing aimlessly on touch phones, their owners holding on to take away coffee without getting warm. The rats moving around on the streets, no longer satisfied with their shelters. The men and women in suits deciding to work overtime. A single gun shot, echoing through long corridors and empty offices. The city was restless, uncomfortable, cold. It had an alien visitor and it was unpatiently waiting to see what he would do to the city and its citizens.

The cold found its way into office buildings, houses, churches and apartments. The flames in the fireplace died slowly and left the remains of a memory card, burned beyond recognition, and a layer of grey ashes. The light, dark powder suddenly moved in the wind, some particles being carrie d away by the breeze. Moriarty could feel the light wind pust which had disturbed the ashes. The unrestlessness of the city had come into the apartment. He stopped and waited, listened. A quiet, almost unnoticable sound. The light scratch of a boot on the floor, which came to a halt outside the apartment door. Moriarty walked into the hallway and looked out through the little whole in the door. He unlocked the door and left the hallway, walking into the kitchen. He started the waterboiler by lifting a handle on the side. He opened a kitchen cabinet and took out two, flower patterned tea cups, along with two small plates for the cups to stand on. Then, he opened a small, silver jar, standing on the kitchen, bench, and, with a teaspoon, he filled the matching, flower patterned kettle and poured the hot water in the kettle. He put the kettle and the cups on a tray and walked into the livingroom, putting down the tray on the coffee table. At the same time, the door to the apartment was opened and a couple of steps were heard from the hallway. A tall shadow was moving in the doorway. Moriarty turned around:

"Welcome. Cup of tea?"

Loki of Asgard stood in front of him, feet apart, his back stretched, his chin raised and his hands on his back. His wounds were healed and his clothing and armour, torned and frayed as they were, still gave a regal, impressive, if somewhat out of place, impression. His grey eyes met the other man's gaze. He raised an eyebrow.

"You're offering me tea?"

Loki spoke with a dark voice. He sounded almost offended. Moriarty smiled.

"A dear friend taught me that. Would you like to take a seat?" His Irish was spoken with a drawl, drawing out the vowels of _dear, taught _and _like_. His sentences had an odd intonation, as if he was speaking more to himself than to the person in front of him. It was as if the sentences he spoke were thoughts, taken directly from his mind, and then translated to human language by a computer. The connection between the feelings behind the words and the sounds which left his lips was missing. It sounded almost like there was no connection, but the intonation and the tone were random. There was no sincerity, no honest politeness or friendliness behind the question he asked Loki. The other man seemed to catch up on this, cause he frowned, turning his head a bit to his left, taking in the man in front of him.

"Taught you what?"

"To not underestimate the importance of conventions. People seem to think that just because you are a criminal, you lack manners."

He indicated an armchair standing to his left. Loki walked up to it and, after having taken of his cape, sat down in it. Moriarty sat down in the armchair opposite him. He poured tea from the kettle into the two teacups and handed one to Loki, who took it. The two men reclined in their seats, cups in hand, and met each others' gazes. Loki took a sip from his cup and placed it on the platter on the armrest. Moriarty spoke:

"Go ahead. Tell me your story. Don't be boring."

In one swift movement, Loki got up from his chair and grabbed Moriarty's clothing by the neck, lifting him up from his chair.

"Don't mock me, human..."

"Whoo, whoo... Careful, it's McQueen."

Loki frowned again, having no idea what the man was talking about. Maybe it had been a mistake coming here, trusting this pathetic human. Maybe he wasn't different from the rest of them...

"You're just like the others."

Something glistened in Moriarty's eyes.

"Oh, but I'm not. You need me. Just as I need you."

Loki loosened his grip on Moriarty, who felt his heels land on the ground again.

"Ordinary criminals are so... manageable, so predictable, so handable. But you, my friend, you are a god. Imagine what we could do together... You need me. My knowledge of Earth. Of London. Of the humans and their petty little games." He said the last words with a smile, as he was mimicking a storyteller from a childrens' book, while moving his fingers like he was controlling a puppet with strings. The light in his eyes grew stronger and more terrifying. "I want to set you loose on the streets of London, stir up the city, watch them dance. See how far to the edge they can be pushed..." His voice disappeared in the distance, just as his eyes. "Control them, rule them, whatever you like." His eyes found Loki's again and he seemed pleased by what he saw in them. "And I know who they would send after you. First, we need to put you in the spotlight, let them watch you shine. Then, they need to capture you, and watch you go, so that they finally and truly realize, we can't be stopped. Together, you and I, will watch them..."

"... kneel."

"Yes."


	8. Chapter 8

_Mycroft Holmes, Ned Warren and the Mystery of the Vanishing Man_

The tress of Regent's Park shook, quickly and violently. There was no rain, but the wind felt like it brought with it small particles of ice. The stars his behind layers of grey clouds. The tubs and cabs were suddenly full. The streets were empty. Restaurants closed early. Televisions were playing at high volumes. Neighbors shut their doors. Winter was coming and it brought with it the thick, cold, long darkness of night.

Mycroft Holmes also had a restless night. All evidence suggested that an Asgardian had landed on Earth. The crater didn't show any signs of a meteorite. However, they had come across pieces of cloth. Green, thick cloth of high quality. Experiments showed traces of unknown subjects and the material reacted in previously unseen ways to being exposed to different chemical substances. Or, not completely unseen. The Americans, who were being unusually supportive and open, had shared data on research done on the hammer, Mjölnir, belonging to the Asgardian prince Thor and tests done on his clothing and other belongings. It made Mycroft wonder what they weren't sharing with the British.

Now, Mycroft could only wait and he couldn't do this with his usual calm and patience. He didn't like being exposed to something he couldn't control or handle. Something that even he couldn't completely understand, due to the missing pieces of evidence or facts he needed to be able to make any deductions. It bothered him.

Mycroft was used to being on top of the situations he came across, especially in his job. Or, especially in his job? If the older brother had heard Sherlock Holmes saying that he considered himself married to his job, he would probably had been able to strongly relate to his younger sibling. As Sherlock once had described him for John: "He _is _the British government, when he's not too busy being the British secret service or the CIA on a freelance basis." Mycroft Holmes was very much aware of his importance for the British government's more delicate matters. He had a striking lack of empathy, which could come in hand. Not that he didn't care for other people. His work often meant protecting the British citizens and he did it gladly. His care and concern for his brother, difficult as he found it to express it in other ways than keeping a close eye on him, was evident. He also cared a great deal for his parents, even if he did prefer them not to visit more than once a year, at the most, and found telephone calls to be quite unnecessary. He did have a heart, Mycroft Holmes. It just didn't act the same way as it did for other people. Ordinary people. With their families, their cares for everyday problems, their overwhelming emotions, sentiments, for everyday situations, bringing them joy, sadness or grief, even if it was directed towards people they didn't even know. Mycroft Holmes didn't find his lack of emotional reactions towards everyday problems or his missing need for relationships disturbing. He probably didn't grasp the concept of loneliness, even if lonely would be the word most outsiders would use to describe his life. He simply didn't react the same way other people did, emotionally, to situations he was faced with. Rather, he analyzed, deducted, drew conclusions, using his intellect, his creative problem-solving ability, his memory and his other cognitive skills, which even exceeded Sherlock Holmes'.

The problem he had come across now bothered him. There had been few clues to go on. That was, until late that night, when Mycroft was contacted by a detective at Scotland Yard, with an interesting piece of information. A man had walked into Paddington Green Police Station on Harrow Road, claiming that his car had been hijacked and that he had been forced to drive to Regent's Park, where the hijacker had lef the car. The man had driven off to the closest police station he could find and almost passed out on the floor and had to be taken care of by a police woman, who had sat him down on a chair, given him a plastic cup of water and then considered calling the psychiatric ward at St Mary's hospital when finally hearing his story. Another lunatic. She had felt sorry for him. The man had claimed that the hijcker, who went by the name of Luki, had had supernatural strength and had wanted to be driven to Regent's Park to meet a second man, who suddenly had appeared in the car and then disappeared again, into thin air. The second man had claimed not to be human and called the other man a giant. He wasn't _that_ tall, the police officer had been told. She had planned to call St Mary's until she saw the message which had arrived. A request for the police oficers of London to stay alert to anything _out of the ordinary_. Going against her better judgements, but following her instincts, she contacted Scotland Yard. After about a quarter of an hour, she got a phone call back from Scotland Yard, informing her that the man shortly would be collected by a detective. She told the man that they would keep investigating the case and that he would get help from another agency, specializing in special cases as his. He seemed simultaneously relieved, calmed and agitated by the information; silently nodding his head with both confused, grateful and distraught tears in his eyes. The woman pitied him. He was sitting on the wooden chair, nervously moving the now empty cup between his hands, and the way he nooded when she told him that they would help him, like a lost child finding a helping hand... She wasn't sure that was what he had found and she wished that she could do more for him. She was quite sure that the Scotland Yard would send him on his way after they heard his story. At best, they would transfer him to a psychiatric ward. And maybe that was what what he needed. Looking into his eyes, the police officer guessed that he was thinking the same thing himself. There was something special about him, something which provoked her instincts, making her call Scotland Yard. The man had told his story from beginning to end a couple of times, not changing any facts or details, and she was absolutely confident that he believed his own story, and that he at the same time couldn't believe what he was saying. But never once during their conversations did he give so much of a hint of defending his own sanity. They say that a madman claims to be sane. Looking at her with those lost, broken eyes, she concluded that he man probably was wishing that someone would tell him the opposite, give him some pills and let him sleep. Instead, he sat on the chair in the interrogation room, twisting his hands, his gaze flattering, his eyelids blinking away sudden attacks of tears in his bloodshot eyes. Occasionally, he would look up and look around him, as if he needed to remind himself where he was. He looked lost, lonely and confused. When the detectives from Scotland Yard came in a black Mercedes with tinted windows, he followed them from the police station without asking questions, smiling slightly to the police officer when passing her, and got into the backseat of their car, the plastic cup still clutched in his hand.

The man coldn't remember much of the car ride. He just remembered the feeling of unease he got, when looking out through the tinted window of the backseat of the car. He wasn't sure if he was projecting his own feelings or if there was _something _about the streets of London this night. They travelled down Edgware Road in a high speed. Big buildings rushed by the car window. The man, who had yet to say his name to any of the people he had met since leaving his house earlier that evening to go to the store to buy a Coke, felt out of place, vulnerable, small. They passed Marble Arch. Hyde Park was dark but beautiful. It made him feel more at ease. He focused on the trees, the wide stretches of grass, and remembered the times that summer, quite many years ago now, when he had worked in central London, when he would go to the park during his lunch breaks or when leaving the office early. Bringing a sandwich and his laptop, he would take his shoes off and sit down on the grass, enjoying the warm air in the shade, feeling alive in every part of his body. Sitting in the car looking out at the park, he remembered the sun and he grabbed that feeling and clinged on to it, as the car turned on to Victoria Street and parked at the Metropolitan Police. Looking at the big building, the man remembered his car, which was parked, probably illegally, outside the police station. The keys were still in his pocket. He took them up from his pocket and looked at them, considering whether he should say something about the car. At that moment, when the car door was opened and he followed the two serious looking men in dark suits from the car, into the big building, through locked doors, past receptionists and armed guards, he felt like Franz K. He held on to his car keys in his pocket and cluched the plastic cup in his other hand. He didn't see any wastebaskets where he could throw it. The long walk through the labyrinthine office spaces finally came to an end and he was left alone in a bare room with no windows, a desk and two chairs. He couldn't remember if anyone had said anything before closing the door behind him. He stood there for a couple of seconds before he decided to sit down on one of the chairs. He placed the plastic cup on the table. It looked crumbled, unuseful. The warm memories of the summer in Hyde Park now felt distant. He realized that he was looking down on the table. His shoulders were trembling. He grabbed the edge of the table with his right hand. He looked at his other hand. It was also trembling. Suddenly, he saw a small drop of water on his hand. And another one. He stared at his hand for a moment. He felt a wet drop running down his cheek. His hand went up to his face and it caught more drops. He looked at his hand again and kept wiping his face, stubbornly trying to clean away the traces of his crying before he was forced to consciously admit it, because then he wouldn't be able to stop and his trembling would turn into violent shakes. Luckily, he was interrupted, distracted, by a man coming into the room. A handkerchief was handed to him. It was made of thick, white linen. He took it from the man's outstretched hand, wiped his face, and looked up at the man who had given him the handkerchief. He was in his fourties and was dressed in a quite old-fashioned looking grey suit, in a thick, sturdy quality, a dark blue tie with a small umbrella on it and a west with a chain to a pocket watch fastened to one of the buttons. He looked at him with an expression which was difficult to read. He didn't looked especially concerned nor embarrassed, which the man appreciated. The man in the grey suit sat down on the chair on the other side of the table.

"Mr Warren. My name is Mycroft Holmes."

Two thoughts crossed Ned Warren's mind. Firstly, he wondered how they knew his name. Secondly...

"What a strange name."

Mycroft's lips thinned and he leaned back slightly in his chair, a strained smile on his face.

"Yes."

He wasn't happy. A bad start.

"Mr Warren, I work with the British government."

Ned wondered if he should find it condensending or alarming (why all this for a simple car hijacking they couldn't possibly believe him) that he didn't get to know the man's job title, but decided to stay quiet for now. His survival instinct had kicked in again and he felt out of his element, exposed and threatened.

"Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee? Water?"

Whiskey...

"Yes..." His tongue was dry. "Tea would be lovely."

Mycroft got up from his chair, opened the door and said something, and then sat down again.

"So, Mr Warren... Could you tell me what happened to you this evening. Take your time and don't leave out any details, as insignificant as they may seem."

No notepad. Mycroft just crossed his legs, put his hands on his knee and waited for Ned to start. Ned thought about his car.

"My car..."

"Yes, Mr Warren."

"It is... It is outside the police station." The door opened and a younger man, also dresssed in a suit, came in, carrying a silver tray with a silver kettle, two porcline cups of tea, a small silver jug with milk and a silver box with sugar. He put the tray on the table and then placed the cups on the table. Mycroft spoke both to the young man and to Ned.

"We can take care of your car and make sure that it is transported here, Mr Warren."

Ned hesitated, but took the car keys from his pocket and handed them to the younger man, deciding to focus on the unspoken assurance of him leaving the headquarters of Scotland Yard in his own car in a near future. The young man took the keys with a polite smile and then left the room. Ned took the ear of the cup with his right hand and then placed his left hand under it to support it. The tea was moving, shaken by his trembling hands. It tasted good and loosened his tongue. He looked up at Mycroft Holmes, who held his own cup in one hand, and took in the man's appearance. He suddenly came to think of a school morning, the first lesson of the day, he couldn't have been more than nine or ten years old. Their teacher, Mr Weatherby, was home sick, after having fallen of a ladder, grooming the apple trees in his garden, where Ned and his friends would sometimes nick apples on Saturday afternoons. At least, until that time when Mr Weatherby had caught them. Their teacher was going to be at home in his armcahair, bothering his poor wife, a calm and tender hearted woman, for at least a month. This morning, Ned was sitting by his desk in the classroom, looking down at his notepad, drawing a fire-breathing dragon. He suddenly heard a voice from in front of him.

"That is a very good dragon."

Ned kept looking down at his desk, expecting the drawing to be torn from his hand and loudly presented for the rest of the class. None of that happened. After a moment, Ned summoned the courage to look up and met a pair of blue eyes, smiling down at him.

"Thank you, sir." His voice was quiet, hardly a whisper. The man nodded at him and walked up to the front of the classroom, getting the attention from the rest of the class, who hadn't notice anything.

"Good morning, class."

"Good morning."

"My name is Mr Pellegrino. I will be your teacher for at least a month from now. I know that you all will miss Mr Weatherby, but we'll do the best we can of the situation, won't we?"

Mr Pellegrino was looking at every face in the classroom, still with a smile on his face. He was old-fashionedly dressed in a brown tweed suit which he looked a bit too young for, but the children soon forgot about this oddity and he became their favorite. When it was time for Mr Pellegrino to leave the class, they protested loudly and missed him terribly, but after a week or two, their school days went back to normal. Except for Ned, whose notepad at first was full of papers with increasingly detailed, sophisticated and colourfull dragons. In the second half of the notepad, there was just school work. When Ned Warren looked at Mycroft Holmes, he reminded him of Mr Pellegrino. Clinging to that thought, ignoring the quizzical look on Holmes' face, Ned started telling his story, from when he was stopped in the middle of the road by the cape dressed man, to the near death experience with the Toyota, caused by the other surprise appearance of the night, up to the final arrival at Park Road, seeing the green cape majestically caught in the wind, stepping on the clutch and the gas pedal at the same time, before finally managing to drive off down Baker Street and on to Marylebone Road, to finally arrive outside Paddington Green Police Station. When he had finished his story, his hands had stopped trembling and he poured himself some more tea. The room was quiet for a couple of seconds.

"Do you believe me, Mr Holmes?"

"I do, Mr Warren."

"Why?"

"Shouldn't I believe you?"

"I wouldn't."

"We have good reasons to. I can't go into specifics."

Ned nodded, knowing he had to be satisfied with that answer.

"Am I free to go?"

"You are not suspected of any crime, apart from speeding down the M1 and illegal parking. And I think we can overlook those things, don't you, Mr Warren?"

"That sounds about fair."

He finished half his cup of tea and then stood up, Mycroft mimicking him.

"We might be in touch, if we need any further information. We would also like to keep your car for a while for further investigations. Don't worry, you'll surely get it back in one piece."

He couldn't argue with the man. Why would he? He wanted to help them with the investigation, any way he could.

"We will loan you another car during the meantime."

"Thank you."

"Our pleasure, Mr Warren. I suppose I don't need to insist on you not disclosing any of this evening's events for anyone?"

"Off course not. Anyway, who would believe me?"

Mycroft smiled again and opened the door, where the young man from earlier was waiting.

"Goodnight, Mr Warren."

"Goodnight, Mr Holmes."

Walking out through the corridors, he remembered a story Mr Pellegrino had told the class a lesson when they were working with the history of the British Isles. He told the class about a Celtic town, close to the Irish Sea. One day, when the children of the town were playing as usual down by the coast, they saw a great ship, with British flags, sailng in the direction of the coast, where the children had stopped their games, one by one, to look at the approaching ship. One of them then turned and ran towards the town, running into the field outside of his house within a minute, yelling as he ran at his parents, who were out working in the fields, harvesting the potato crops. His parents stopped to look up at their son, who ran up to his father, who was the closest one, panting as he spoke:

"A ship! A ship!"

The boy was both scared and excited. His father sighed, muttering to himself:

"I thought you had given up on this game..."

He wiped the sweat of his forehead with a dirty hand, covering it with black, dry dirt, holding a bunch of weak, small potatoes in his other hand.

"Sam, go back to your friends.

His voice was low, strained.

"But dad..."

"I said go!"

The boy took a few steps back, unused to hearing his father yelling, and, with a child's wisdom, took in his father's tired eyes, his skinny but muscular arms, his tanned, sunken skin, his bended back and the small potatoes in his hand, and walked away, confused, bewildered and silenced. Sam went back to his friends on the beach and stood next to them as two new ships were made visible, coming out of the fog far out at sea. They looked at him, but he didn't know what to say, so he looked away, hiding tears of shame, of failure. A girl with bright red hair then ran off, quickly followed by her best friend, a small girl with sticks for legs and skin that wouldn't be tanned, despite how much time she spend in the sun, as if it didn't have the energy to muster it. The first girl slowed down a bit so the second one could catch up with her and together, the two girls ran towards a field on the other side of the village. Behind the girls, the children were slowly backing away from the beach. When they reached the field, the two girls ran into a small house, where the first girl's mother was busy in the kitchen, cleaning the stove. The small girl waited at the door. The redhaird girl ran up to her mother, crying for her's attention.

"Mother! Mother! There are ships! Ships in the sea! Huge ships!"

"Ana, go out and play again. There is bread one the table. You take one. And Liamhain, you take one, too. You need the food."

"Thank you", was heard from the table, as Liamhain took a bun and then disappeared out through the door.

"But mother..."

"I know, I heard you. Off you go, now."

Ana walked out again, grabbing a bun on the way, and she and Liamhain ran around the village, disturbing anyone they could find with the news. They came across Sam, who was sitting in the shadow under the sloping roof of the garden shed behind his parents' house, petting a small, grey kitten who was resting on his arm, not answering their questions about the grown-ups' reactions to the news, before running hand in hand up to their neighbour, who was pumping water from the well. On the beach, the other children stood, their feet sunken into the sand, their light hair blowing in the wind, their slender arms to their sides, their heads either turned to see if the other children and their parents would be coming soon, or turned against the sea, watching the approaching ships.

As Ned sat in the backseat of a black Mercedes, being driven through the streets of London, the car which would be lended to him following behind them, he thought about the children standing on the beach, looking at the great ships approaching, and the adults, sending them away .


	9. Chapter 9

_Drink your wine_

"Drink your wine."

Charlotte had to admit that this was a good idea. She took a large sip of the dry, dark red drink, which refreshened her tongue and warmed her body. Since she already had a large glass in her system, she needed to drink carefully. She didn't want to get tipsy. She placed the glass on the table again; her thoughts going back to the phone lying smashed on the floor. Against her will intrigued, and with no other possible alternative explanations in store, _for now_, than to believe the man calling himself a demon, she decided that she needed to get a better grasp of the situation she found herself in. Her heart keeping its steady, fast rhytm in her chest, the beats resonating, she imagined, witin the man who had incidcated that he was a threat and who had taken the trouble of following her or looking for her, but who hadn't done _anything_, except smashing her phone into pieces, and who was sitting on a chair in her livingroom, a glass of wine in his hand, wanting to have a chat.

"Where are we getting?", Charlotte asked. She held her breath.

"Sorry?"

"You said that we are getting somewhere."

"I did. And we need more wine."

The man left and walked into the kitchen, returning with the half empty wine bottle and a new one.

'There goes the whole storage', Charlotte thought to herself. The man poured wine from the first bottle into his and Charlotte's glasses and sat down on the chair again.

"Now. I am a demon of few virtues. Well, I don't really have any virtues. You can't afford any when the other side has so few and is working on getting ride of the few they have. However, I do have one rule: make a deal, keep it. And that puts my delicate arse, and yours, in an interesting dilemma."

"You shut up about my arse."

"Really, Charlotte, the big picture? No wonder you don't have a boyfriend."

He paused, taking in her chocked reaction from across the table. She was staring at him and he thought he could see a tear in her eyes.

"Too soon?"

He smiled. She looked down at her closed hands.

"This dilemma we find ourselves in, then. I have made a deal, preventing me, at the moment, from killing you. Otherwise, I would have turned you into the lining of a winter coat by now. Or I would have, if my tailor hadn't been eaten."

The details in his statement were dancing in Charlotte's mind. She grasped the important one.

"You have made a deal? And you are intending of keeping it, are you?"

The few seconds before he answered seemed like minutes.

"This isn't Wall Street, this is Hell! We have a little something called integrity."

The man seemed almost offended.

"Alright." Charlotte was hoping that he would keep valuing his integrity and wondered if he had been serious about the coat thing, but the nausea spreading in her body made her decide to leave that for now, since it didn't seem to be an issue she needed to worry about, at the moment, at least. But what did she need to worry about?

"What do you want?"

"And we're back on track again. That, my darling, is for me to know and you to find out. I guess that the first thing isn't hard to guess? You keep your pretty mouth shut about what you overheard this evening."

Charlotte nodded once to show her agreement.

"So, Charlotte, what did you hear?"

"Something about the king of Hell, a fallen god king and some very intelligent and mad person he was gonna visit. Not much, really."

"Try selling that story to someone, see how far that gets you."

"I figured that out."

"You're brave, you know. And stupid as a Winchester. So don't go changing your mind, now. Or I might need to use a possible loophole in the contract and send a Hellhound after you."

"Why am I stupid?"

"Because you haven't noticed that that's not your wine you're drinking."

In that moment, the vague feelings of dizzyness and nausea struck her as she became suddenly increasingly aware of it and she grabbed the edge of the sofa. She wasn't at all getting tipsy. It was going too fast...

"What have you done?"

"Relax, you'll be fine in the morning. Who knows? You might just remember this as a dream. And if you do, you will still remember what could happen to you if you tried to investigate it further. But you will not do that. You will only remember it as a nightmare. I am not real. Demons are not real. Do you hear me, Charlotte? You will only remember it as a nightmare. Demons are not real. Do you understand, Charlotte?"

He paused. His voice was hypnotising.

"I said: 'Do you understand, Charlotte?'"

"I understand."

She tried to fight the feeling. She was so tired and his voice was so comforting, like the melody she had let follow her earlier that evening into sleep.

"This was only a nightmare. Demons are not real. Do you understand, Charlotte?"

"I understand."

"Repeat it."

"You are not real. Demons are not real. This was only a nightmare."

"You dropped your phone on the pavement and it broke. Do you understand, Charlotte?"

"I dropped the phone on the pavement and it broke into miiilllions of pieces."

A soft laugh.

"As you like, madame."

"Only a bad dream..."

"That's right, Charlotte."

The sofa was soft under her arm. Her head was carefully lifted and a thick pillow was placed underneath it. She sank into it, down the rabbit hole. A blanket was placed on her and when she tried to pull it up to her chin, she noticed that she couldn't move. Her eyes were closed and she couldn't open them.

"Sweet dreams, Alice."

And then all was darkness.


	10. Chapter 10

_Whispering winds through paper sheets and dreams of forgotten memories_

It was now late and the night was dark as the moon and stars were covered by clouds. The streets of London kept their chilling emptiness. A wind swept through the parks and gardens, brushing against the branches of the trees, letting them whisper a name to the night, and the Londoners moved restlessly in their sleep.

Ned Warren had arrived at his home, a house in a small village a few miles outside of town, where his bed was cold and the sheets rustled as dry paper as he tossed and turned in the bed, staring up at a spot of light in the white ceiling, cast by a street lamp outside of the window, listening to the silence of an empty street.

Charlotte was falling down her rabbit hole, deep down into the world of her dreams, inhabited this night by demons, offering her parchments where the ink ran down the surface, making them impossible to read, and quills, which crumbled into dust by her touch. She was running through the park again, the branches reaching out for her, turning into long fingered hands, green cloths covering her face, fastening themselves to her mouth, making it difficult to breathe. She was suddenly on the tube, sitting next to a man in a dark suit, who leaned towards her and whispered:

"Sleep, Charlotte."

As she slept, her head leaning against his shoulder, she saw a man in leather cloathing, looking at her with grey eyes, surrounded by black hair, turning and walking away from her, towards the doors of the train, which opened as the train reached a station, and the man left the train, the doors closing behind him, and the seat next to her was suddenly empty.

She was standing at a book shelf at the library, picking up books from a small book wagon and putting them in their right places on the shelves. She was at the Mythology section, which was one of her favourites. She grabbed a book on Greek mythology and placed it in that section. The second one was about Norse mythology. The cover featured several of the gods and goddesses, including Thor, with his hammer raised to the sky, and the god of mischief, the giant, what was his name... She started looking through the index, searching for the name... But the pages faded and just as sudden, the dream changed again.

She was standing in her apartment and Molly, her roommate, was there and her ex was there, but he was still her boyfriend. She was crouching down, taking her sneakers off since they were covered in mud from a bike ride through the woods. When she stood up again, she saw that her knees were wrapped in bandages with some blood on them. She tried to remember what has happened, but it was just dark. Molly was talking on the phone and passed her in the hallway, smiling at her as a greeting. She walked into the living room, where her boyfriend was sitting in the sofa, and she started explaining that she must have fallen off her bike in the woods, but that she had no idea who had found her and put the bandages on her wounded knees, only to leave her again. She followed her boyfriend into the bathroom, where he helped her to change the bandages on her bloody knees. The feeling of unease wouldn't let her go.

Charlotte woke up from the dream, suddenly and swiftly, and was immediately wide awake. All she could remember from the night's dreams was the last one and, before she left her bed, she wrote it down in the dream journal she kept in a drawer next to the bed. When she was finished, she put the journal back in the drawer and went up from her bed and into the livingroom. A glass of wine from the day before was still standing on the coffee table, next to the shattered pieces of her mobile phone. She sighed and crouched down next to the table to inspect the damages again to determine if it could be fixed or not. It didn't look hopefull. At least, the SIM card and the memory card looked pretty okay. She went to the kitchen and grabbed a plastic bag which she put the pieces in. There was an empty wine bottle on the bench. She must have drunken more then she though she did. Or did she pour it out? She couldn't remember. Did she drink more after she came home from her walk? She tried to mentally retrace her steps. She took the tube and walked from Warren's Street to Regent's Park, beside the lake. She pictured it in her mind; the blank water, occasionally disturbed by a light, chilly breeze, distraughting the images reflected in the water. There was something, or someone there, reflected in the water, but it was difficult to focus. It was as if her mind was trying to push her attention away in another direction and she was starting to get a headache. Or maybe it was just the wine. That could explain why the rest of the evening was a bit blurry in her memory as well. She remembered sitting on the tube, going home. Had she fallen asleep? She also remembered lying down on the sofa, a pillow under her head, a blanket covering her body, and again her head started to hurt. She didn't usually drink so much. This wasn't good. Not at all.

Charlotte opened the fridge and took out the bottle of white wine from yesterday. She unscrewed the cork and poured the remaining wine out in the sink. She put the empty bottle in the recycling bin under the sink and opened the door to the cabinet where she kept her small storage of wine and took out the only remaining bottle. She opened the third drawer to pick up the corkscrew, but didn't find it in its usual place. 'That's odd', she thought to herself, but decided that she probably could refer this incident as well to her state of mind the previous night. She opened the second drawer, where she found the corkscrew, neatly placed next to the ladles and spatulas. She took it out, opened the bottle of red wine and poured out the contents of that one as well, placing it in the recycling bin next to the other one.

'There. No more wine for at least a month', she decided. Her head felt lighter now and she decided to walk of the disturbing thought of the empty wine bottle on the bench by going downtown after breakfast to look at getting a new mobile phone. Her old one was getting outdated, anyway, so it was about time, and it seemed like quite a good way to start of her Saturday off work. She prepared the coffeemaker and turned it on, watching the dark beverage dropping down into the can, making quite loud noises and puffing out hot steam. While she waited for the coffee to get ready, she walked into the living room, sorting out the blanket, which had been left in the middle of the sofa, and putting back the pillow so that it rested against the back of the sofa. On her way back to the kitchen, she picked up the chair which still stood there after she had used it to change a lightbulp a couple of days ago. When she lifted the chair, she saw something soar down onto the ground, which had probably been lying on the chair. She stopped, put the chair down again and bent down to pick up the item. It turned out to be a white business card, made from a thick, white paper. It had landed upside down, so she turned it around to read the writing on it. The card read, in dark red italics:

**_Crowley_**

**_King of Hell_**

**_666_**

Charlotte sank to the floor, her sight dizzy and out of focus, her legs not carrying her, and she dropped the card on the floor next to her, the red letters staring back at her, and now, suddenly, she remembered the dreams, with the parchments with the running letters, and the man on the tube, and running through Regent's Park, the green cloth over her mouth, and she clasped her hand over her mouth, keeping in a silent scream, and then the world went black again, as Charlotte fainted on the floor.


	11. Chapter 11

_Sunrays seeking each others' touch_

John Watson was sitting in his armchair this morning, a cup of tea on the table opposite him, a newspaper in his hands. He was reading about an astronomical phenomena which had been seen over England the previous night and which had created a crater, which had quickly been sealed of by the police, who had refered to the risk of radiation. The article ended there and John kept glancing over the pages, his eyes catching headlines of a robbery against a jewelry store and that the Primeminister had called the leader of the opposition a complete mug in a debate in Parliament. He soon folded the newspaper and tossed it on the table. He looked over at Sherlock, who was sitting in the armchair opposite him, lost in thought, staring of into the distance.

"Sherlock. I'm going to work today, remember?"

"Hm?"

"I'm going to work today."

"Yes, that will be good."

John got up from his seat and went into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar, quite confident that Sherlock hadn't heard him. He grabbed his toothbrush and started brushing his teeth.

"Since when do you work on Saturdays?"

'Observant, Sherlock', John thought to himself. For being so extremly observant, analytical and intelligent, Sherlock could often miss or forget the most simple, everyday occurances.

"I told you yesterday and the day before that. I took an extra shift today. We need the money."

"Hmf. Money. How boring." Sherlock made a dramatic face, to display clearly how insignificant and petty he considered this reason to be.

"You should be glad someone cares about money in this household. I don't know how you made it without me."

"How do you think I got my homeless network?"

"Give it a break, Sherlock. Mycroft would never let you live on the streets. And you wouldn't either, for that matter."

"No, you're right, my occassionally clever friend."

"Sorrry?"

"What?"

"What was that?"

"Oh, nothing." He smiled at John in his most insincere way. Frowning, but not saying anything, John grabbed his olive green parkas and put it on in the doorway.

"I'll be back in the afternoon."

"Okay."

"Bye, Sherlock."

"Bye, John." He didn't look up from the laptop he had placed in his lap. But, at least, he recognized that John had left and, walking down the stairs, John thought to himself that that probably was as much as he could expect.

The time was about seven in the morning as John Watson walked out from the black door, leading into the apartments of 221B Baker Street. He zipped up his parkas and took out a pair of earphones from his pocket, putting them in his ears. As he walked down Baker Street, the soft, feminine voice of Nancy Sinatra was heard in his ears, singing "Bang bang, my baby shot me down". The deep sounds of the guitar accompanied the empty, chilly Saturday morning of the lonely street. John put his hands in his pockets. The only sound that was heard was the echo of his footsteps.

* * *

Several miles away, on a lonely, country road, a completely different sound was heard from a black Impala. The tunes of Kansas' "Carry on Wayward Son", leaking out from the car, upset a couple of rabbits, who had just come up from their rabbit hole and went into hiding again, and stopped a fox, about to cross the road, who decided against it and ran back into the forest again, as well as disturbing a few people trying to sleep in on their day of work or, in one case, recovering from a hangover, kicked of by the base beat and guitar riffs coming in through the window. The man covered his head with his pillow and went back to sleep a few minutes after the car had passed by his house. Inside the car, the man doing the driving was muttering to himself about the British traffic system.

"Freakin' impossible, driving on the left side of the road, makes no god damn sense. Keep forgetting at which side the cars are coming at you, scaring the hell out of me every freaking time..."

At that moment, a car going in the same direction flew pass them on their right side.

"Jesus Christ!"

The man sitting in the passenger seat, resting his head against the headrest, shook as he was suddenly waken by the driver's shouting.

"What is it, Dean?"

"God damn British traffic, stupid dumbasses!"

The man in the passenger seat leaned against the headrest again without saying a word, and was soon fast asleep, the sound of Kansas cradling him to sleep, and the Impala continued its journey as the country started to come back to life.

* * *

The morning was quiet, almost soft, but cold. The city seemed to be waking up one neighbourhood at the time, the sunlight catching one street after the other in a steady pace, shaking the branches of the trees and their autumn leaves to life, softly lightning up the pavements, the asphalt, the paving stone and the facades of the buildings with a bright, soft sunlight, coming from a light grey sky. The coffee shops put out their tables and chairs on the sidewalks, but only the occasional smoker sat down in one, a cup of coffee or tea on the table in front of them, huddled up in a warm jacket or coat, gloved fingers reaching around a glowing cigarette which was lightning up the autumn morning. Some commuters passed by the shop owners, who were unlocking doors, sweeping pavements and changing signs to ones stating that the shops were now open, and the cabs kept moving through the streets, steering out in to the streets to avoid parked trucks delivering fresh baked goods, newspapers, dairy products, fruits and vegetables. Some tourists were up early, taking in the majestetic scenery of Hyde Park, the urban feeling of Oxford Street or the staggering view of the Palace of Westminister from Westminister Bridge, while avoiding both the crowds and other tourist traps, such as street vendors and human statues, while others were pulling suitcases behind them on their way to the airport or train station. A few joggers passed by on their way to a park, or simply running through the relatively quiet streets, and some men and women could be seen walking, or staggering, home from a late afterparty, passing others walking their dogs, greeting each other as they passed by on their usual morning walks, commenting on the cold and the fact that autumn now most definitely had reached the city. It was Saturday, a September morning in London, and in just a few hours, the city would be vibrant with life. But for now, the people who had chosen this early hour to leave their homes, had that amazing opportunity, to stroll down the streets and bridges of central London and take in their surroundings, without being bumped into, and to stop, and look, and think, and breathe.

Mycroft Holmes was sitting in the backseat of a car on his way to Baker Street. He had got a few hours sleep before being waken up early with the news that the Americans had invited themselves to London to get involved in their suspected alien incident. Their were expected in a couple of days. Mycroft wasn't prepared to let an investigation of this grandeur and importance slip out of his hands. At the same time, he was painfully aware of the fact that he needed allies with special sets of skills to stay on top of a situation which he couldn't even begin to paint an image of. He was lost and he knew it. He had had a quite embarrassing talk with the Prime Minister the night before of a manner that he didn't wish to be repeated, where he had come across as being just as lost in the dark as he was, and perhaps also, Mycroft feared, incompetent. The Prime Minister had a soft spot for the Americans and Mycroft wasn't going to let himself be wrestled out of this investigation. Out of respect for his duties in the past, the Prime Minister had informed him that he was keeping the Americans on hold on this. That meant that they only had secret, perhaps even undercover, agents working close to the investigation at the moment. But that was about to change and when it did, Mycroft needed to show progress. He needed the help of his younger brother, who might not had the same intellectual level as Mycroft, but who had a certain passion, skill, determination and addiction for these types of matter which hopefully would prove to be of use.

Baker Street was almost empty and quiet as the car pulled up outside 221b. The café next doors to the black door which served as entrance to both Mrs Hudson's apartment and to the one shared by John and Sherlock, was open and a customer was sitting outside, smoking a cigarette behind a grey flannel cap. Mycroft had perhaps found it curious to know that behind a thin, white curtain, on the other side of the street, an old woman was peering out at the familiar black car, making a note in a book, documenting the fact that it now had been almost a month since the last time the car had been at this adress, or at least since she saw it there the last time, and that occassion followed a time of quite frequent visits to one of the men living in the apartment on the second floor, behind the black door, across the street. As for now, walking out from the car and opening the door to the apartments, Mycroft was clueless about his noisy observant. He closed the door behind him and walked up the stairs, skipping the fifth one, which always made a creaking sound, in the hopes of being able to surprise Sherlock. Just as his younger brother, Mycroft had the occasional sense of dramatics. It also served the benefit of attracting his brother to a case, like when he had brought him to Buckingham Palace to offer him the case of Irene Adler. It had, naturally, been irresistible for Sherlock, even if showing up dressed in a white sheet did cross the line somewhat. Sherlock had felt the need to send him a message. Oh, well, message received. He knew he had to be careful. It didn't seem to work out well, ordering his brother around, so he had to find other means of attracting his brother to the case he was going to present him with now. Not that that was going to be a problem. Mycroft knew as well as John, and Sherlock did, that both men desperately needed a case. And Mycroft had what could possibly turn out to be the case of the century for them. Add a dash of drama to the presentation and he would be all set.

Part A of the plan failed. As he reached the second floor, he heard Sherlock's voice:

"Good morning, dear brother."

Mycroft couldn't help himself. He smiled, genuinely amused.

"Good morning. How's life on the quiet side of town?"

"You're keeping busy?"

"As always. How are you dealing with life on the home front? You probably should do something about John's irritation, before he decides to verbalize it."

"Fair enough. I'll play."

Sherlock locked up from the laptop in his lap.

"The dust layer on the furniture and on the floor suggests that you haven't been cleaning, but the only pairs of footprints leading towards the front door go from John's bedroom, the kitchen and his armchair. Further, the half a dozen tea mugs on the coffee table and the writing desk all are standing with the ear to the right, suggesting that they have been used by a man who is right-handed, and John, who is left-handed, have cleared away his mugs and left yours, suggesting an ongoing irritation or maybe even quarrel that even you must have noticed or guessed was ongoing. Also, your hair is a mess."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock. You never leave the house with your boyish curls looking unwashed and greasy and dangling to the sides like that."

"I'm bored, Mycroft."

"I have a solution to that problem, which would fix up the tangle you have with John, as well as motivate you to fix up the ones in your hair, I would imagine."

"A case?"

"That's right."

"Who is the client?"

"Unclear. At the moment, the British Secret Service. Perhaps, England. Possible, the world."

"Oh no..."

"What?"

"You mean 'the Americans'."

"Yes, they'll be involved... possibly."

"What's the case?"

"Do you remember the alien incident in New Mexico a couple of weeks ago?"

"No, what was that?"

"A rhetoric question met with a predictabe answer. You're losing your touch, Sherlock. You need to get out more."

"Isn't that what we're discussing? I can admit being intrigued."

"How couldn't you be? Have you seen the news this morning?"

"I have."

"Did you see the item about the astronomical phenomena yesterday?"

"Astronomy doesn't interest me."

"You still haven't learned your lesson, have you?"

"Oh, but I know how much you love tutoring. Go on, Mycroft."

Mycroft pursed his lips, but he didn't respond. Instead, he continued his story.

"Something, or someone, fell from the sky yesterday and created a large crater. We've found footsteps leading away from the crater as well as pieces of fabric, which does not seem to be from Earth. It shows many resemblances to the clothing and other material belonging to the Asgardian Thor."

Sherlock put his hands against each other, tapping his fingers.

"Mythology coming to life..."

"Yes... A childhood dream coming true, isn't it, Sherlock?"

Mycroft had an unpleasant smile on his face, enjoying teasing his brother.

"You've always been envious of my imagination, Mycroft. Here could be your chance to embrace that side of yourself."

"I have to admit finding it entriguing as well. However, I also find it worrying. We are concerned that this newest alien visitor could be Loki, Thor's brother."

"Loki... The god of mischief?"

"That is the one."

"How fitting. This sounds like fun."

"Loki used a gigantic robot to murder people in New Mexico."

"Americans..."

"Sherlock Holmes!"

"Fine! This is what boredom does to me."

"Are you sure it is boredom that should be blamed?"

A silence in the form of a shadow fell over the room.

"Have you heard from him?"

"Not a word. That is what worries me. Neither from Loki."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"Nothing at the moment."

"Ohh!"

Sherlock threw his hands up and fell back in his armchair.

"I'm dying, Mycroft!"

"Have you started again?"

"No."

"Don't make me search your apartment, cause you know I will."

"I haven't."

"I'll bring Anderson."

"You won't find anything."

"I can give you a small fix while you're waiting."

Sherlock lifted his head and looked at Mycroft.

"Really?"

"Not a cigarette. Those are reserved for deaths of closed ones and Christmas dinner with our parents."

Sherlock sighed loudly and threw his head back again.

"There is a man, Ned Warren, who met the Asgardian. He is also claiming that another man showed up in the car while they were doing 70 on the M1."

"And that is your only source?"

"Don't disgard him too quickly. I am completely confident that he believes in what he says and he was quite detailed when giving his statement."

"Magic? What has happened to you?"

"I've read the reports of the events in New Mexico. I think you should too before you're too quick to judge."

"So Mr Warren is my client?"

"At the moment."

"Let me shower and pick up John."

"Naturally. We'll take Mr Warren in for questioning later today. The poor man has just fallen asleep after a restless night. It wouldn't hurt to give him a few hours."

* * *

Ned Warren had indeed just fallen asleep. He unmoving figure could be seen from four different angles on two video screens in an office of the British Secret Service, showing the images from the hidden security cameras in the man's bedroom, which had been put up there while Ned was telling the story of the night's events to Mycroft Holmes. But Ned wasn't enjoying his rest. Soon, the man could be seen tossing and turning in his bed for about five minutes before the lamp on the bedside table was turned on for probably the tenth time that night and Ned Warren closed his eyes when they were exposed to the sudden light, hiding them under his forearm, which soon started trembling again. There was no rest for Ned Warren to wish for this night, which had turned into morning. Ned didn't know this, since he had hung a couple of thick, black blankets over the bedroom window to cover up the street lamp lightning up a part of his ceiling, where dark shadows moved and danced when a car drow by on the street outside. It was nightmarish. Ned couldn't either possibly know what time it was, since he had turned his alarm clock around, so that the glowing red digits now hit the wall with their light, after having too many times opened his eyes only to see that only a few minutes had passed since the last time his gaze met the digital clock. Now, he was awake again, but he was tired, so tired. His sheets were now sweaty, like wet paper, and the pillow was wet from tears and sweat. He had turned it around and had managed to find a slight bit of comfort, but now he felt his arm trembling over his eyes and his leg wouldn't stop twitching, in sudden attacks of anxiety. He closed his eyes, but it felt as if they were still open. His heart was beating so he could hear it, feel it in his cheast. He felt like he had a storm under his forehead, which was spreading to his stomach and his legs. He sobbed, but his eyes were dry and no tears came down his cheeks. Suddenly, he started heaveing and he rushed out of bed and into his bathroom, where he fell down on the floor, landing in a sitting position next to the toilet, but his stomach was also empty and only dry heavs came out of his struggling body. Sweat was now running down his forehead and his cheast, arms and legs were shaking from cold. He pulled down a towel from the hanger on the wall and hung it over his shoulders, pulling it closer around himself, and laid down of the floor.


	12. Chapter 12

_Kings trying on their crowns_

The morning went on and the streets were suddenly full of life and sounds. This day showed quite quickly signs of being just as sunny and warm as the previous one and people with jackets and knitted sweaters thrown over their shoulder bags strolled down the streets of central London, gazing at each other for a bit longer than they would have usually done, with their eyes hidden behind sunglasses. The tourists were admiring the people with London accents they came across on their daily journeys and the Londoners found their ways to their favourite hideouts or frequented the tourist hot spots.

At about half past ten in the morning, the shopping streets were crowded and even the parks and squares had visitors, leaping up sunlight, their faces turned towards the sun, warming themselves with sunlight, take away coffee, cigarettes and each other.

Mycroft Holmes was standing on his balcony, watching the street below him being tiedened up from the night before, a cup of tea in his hand and a couple of daily newspapers on the table next to him. Ned Warren had fallen asleep again on the carpet on his bathroom floor, half his body covered by a green towel, his head resting on a rolled up guest towel. Crowley was standing on Piccadilly Cirkus, his coat being lifted in the air by the light breeze, seemingly enjoying the sunlight. Sherlock Holmes was standing in front of his wardrobe, choosing a shirt to wear after having tried on and disgarded a couple of grey ones already. John Watson was having a break after sending his fourth patient for the day to a nurse to have the cut on his hand sewn together. He was sitting in the staff room, drinking tea and paying some attention to the morning show on the TV on the opposite wall. Jim Moriarty, on the other hand, was watching the TV in his livingroom intensely, a mobile phone in his hand, a smile on his face, his eyes glowing, humming Springsteen's 'I'm on Fire'. Mrs Hudson was visting the bakery next to her apartment, picking up new bakeries for a late breakfast and having a chat with the owner. Dean and Sam Winchester were also having breakfast, consisting of coffee, toast, bacon and eggs, in a small cafè in Camden, the Impala parked on the street outside. Charlotte was sitting on the floor of her livingroom, a big tea cup in her hands, her legs crossed, a blanket over her shoulder, her eyes blank, staring at the TV in front of her, which offered some of the distraction she sought before she would start dealing with the business card lying in front of her on the floor, its white colour a sharp contrast to the dark oak floor boards. In a window to one of the many, generic hotels in the Hyde Park area, a waitress in the middle of clearing a breakfast table had stopped her work and was staring at the TV in the corner of the room. On Piccadilly Cirkus, a cold wind passed through the crowd and it brought with it a silence which spread from person to person, as one face after the other was turned towards the big screens of the buildings and everone stopped in their movements and all was silence, except for the cars continuously passing by and the voice being heard from the man on the screens.

"Greetings, citizens of London. I am Loki, of Asgard, and I am burdened with glorious purpose."

Mycroft Holmes' phone made a sound and he looked down at the text he had received, which only read:"Turn on the TV." He left the balcony and walked into his apartment, turned on his TV and a few seconds later, he found himself looking at a man with black hair, clothing picked from a fantasy roleplaying game and a viscious smile on his face. He looked down at his phone as he got another text: "Loki." In every apartment, in every house, on every TV screen in London, the same images were broadcast, of the Asgardian. John Watson was looking at the TV in front of him, not sure how to react, with disbelief, by laughing or by getting the hell out of London. Mycroft Holmes certainly didn't feel like laughing, as he was watching his worst cast scenario coming to life in front of him. Sam and Dean Winchester had, alongside the other guests of the cafe, stopped in the middle of the breakfast to turn their attention to the TV screen, wondering if this was an ordinary human being with an oversized ego, as Dean put it, or a new form of supernatural being. The waitress in the Hyde Park hotel, who had always flattered herself with being a good people person and having excellent instincts, could feel the hair on her arm standing up. Charlotte had backed away from the TV screen, as if the man with the armour was in the room with her, and clasped her hand over her mouth to hold back a silent scream. Jim Moriarty kept looking at the TV, the phone in his hand, the smile on his face and the glow in his eyes. Crowley stood surrounded by the other visitors of Piccadilly Cirkus, but he was the only one who wasn't staring in chock and disbelief at the screen. A woman next to him leaned in his direction and asked him:

"Is this some kind of commercial?"

"That would be one way to put it."

On the gigantic screens, all showing the same face, Loki continued talking:

"I come with glad tidings of a world made free. Free from lies. From the ultimate lie. A lie you have been fed and which you have been feeding yourselves, for centuries, and look where that has brought you. I offer you a world where you are free, free from freedom. Humans, freedom is life's greatest lie. Once you accept that, in your hearts, you will know peace."

The woman next to Crowley turned to him again:

"I don't get it..."

"Oh, I think you will..."

Loki continued:

"You will hear from me again. During the mean time, as a token of my great plans for you, I intend to take the first step towards your liberation, by destroying a soon meaningsless symbol of power. Members of Parliament and Lords, I wish you no harm, if you follow my words. Leave the mighty Palace of Westminister, or be buried in its ruins, as another example of a relic of the past. People of London, in just an hour, you will witness the beginning of a new world order."

Loki smiled and just as sudden, the screens went black. A few seconds passed and the people of Piccadilly Cirkus started whispering among each other, asking questions to which there were no answers, most of them circling around the topic of who had thought this was supposed to be funny. The air was tense with uncertainty and unease. Crowley drew a deep breath and looked at the woman standing next to him, as she spoke to him again:

"What the hell was..."

"Schhh..." He put a finger to his lips and the woman felt as if her voice had been snatched away from her throat. She tried to speak, but her vocal cords and her tongue were numb and she couldn't make a sound.

"Watch..."

Suddenly, the black screen flashed back to life and the woman turned her eyes towards it and saw an image which made her gasp. Around her, she could hear more people gasp and she saw them instinctively stepping closer to each other, cluthcing each others' arms and hands.

The screens showed the Palace of Westminister, with a timer in the right corner of the screen counting down from sixty minutes. Before the timer had counted down its first two seconds, Mycroft had dialed a number on his phone and was ordering a full, immediate evacuation of the Palace of Westminister and an area three kilometres around it, he didn't care how it would be done, "just do it!" On the screen, he could now read 59:50 and he could see people running out from the building, confirming that he was looking at a live feed. Mycroft Holmes did something which was very unusual for him and said a silent prayer for the people in the building and near it, before making a new phone call, sending every available and non-available agent and police officer to the location, before calling his brother. Sherlock answered after three long signals.

"Where are you?"

"At Baker Street."

"I have to go. Turn on the TV. And for god's sake, stay there."

Outside of the Palace of Westminister, the streets were full of people running in all directions leading away from the Palace, while an increasing number of police officers in uniforms and in civilian clothes were guiding people away from the area and putting up roadblocks. It was chaos. Thousands of people were in the area which was going to be emptied and needed to be moved. Police cars with loud speakers announcing the need for immediate evacuation was soon in place and people were moved from their homes and from other buildings, to join the crowds which started to fill the entier streets. Buses were stopped from doing their usual routes to instead ship people away and the tube was opened to give another possible escape route. The few MPs on sight and the other people who currently resided in the Palace didn't need much convincing and heavily armoured cars soon joined the double-deckers and the other vehicles being forced to turn around and leave the area close to the Themes.

In the middle of the chaos, reporters in vans with writing on them in loud letters, proudly announcing which now non-broadcasting TV station they were representing, started arriving at the scene, only to be stopped at the perimeters of the closed off area, to record material for when their hijacked TV channels came back to life and to broadcast live on their websites. They only added to the chaos, as many of the reporters also tried to stop and interview people passing by. Slowly but steadily, the closed off area grew and soon, very few individuals could still be seen hurrying through the closed off area closest to the Palace, being rounded up and taken away to a secure location by the remaining police officers. Within the hour, the area was practically emptied up to St. John's Garden and St James's Park, at least from people on the streets, and the remaining police officers were ordered to leave the area, including those who had been searching the Palace for a possible bomb, and they left the perimeter and waited, in silence, on the other side of the Themes, their eyes fixed to the great structure across the waters, as the timer continued to count down. As the timer counted down to twenty-six seconds left, Jim Moriarty pushed the screen on his mobile phone, laughed out loud and took some gracious dance steps across his living room floor, as a loud noise was heard from the Palace. The audience on the other side of the Themes, and in front of the TV screens, jerked back, excpecting an explosion, but they soon realized that it wasn't the sound of destruction they heard. It was music.

The first riffs of Sex Pistol's 'Anarchy in the UK' could be heard from somewhere near the Palace, the sound being emphatized by loudspeakers and being thrown across the waters.

After a few seconds, Moriarty extended his right arm in the middle of a step, pushed the screen on his phone for a second time, and stopped, watching the TV screen with glowing eyes and a mad smile, as the music was completely drowned by the sound of a loud explosion, coming from somewhere inside the Palace and, as the music continued, the audience across the Themes could see a large piece of the building being sealed in fire, crumble into pieces and fall into the water, leaving a gaping, burning ruin of stone, wood and fire.

Within a few seconds of thick clouds of smoke, splashing of water as pieces of the building fell into the river, rising flames and the deafening sounds of fire and falling pieces of stone, a second explosion made the ground under the onlookers on Westminister Bridge Road shake, as the middle part of the Palace was consumed by more fire. The black smoke was finding its way over the water, gently caressing the surface, lightly pushed forward by the fire. The city held its breath, anticipating another explosion to tear up its fragile layer of skin, making it bleed, as the flames consumed one of the strongest symbols of power, stability and democracy in the city.

As the minutes passed by, half the building crumbled into pieces and was consumed by the flames, which spat out small particles, being lifted into the air and turning into black smoke.

The scene was witnessed by a city in shock, in front of TV screens, on Piccadilly Cirkus or close enough to have pieces of ash get caught in their hair and smoke filling their lungs.

Finally, after a time of trying to grasp the surreal sight of the undestructable being destructed, the unthreatenable being threatened and the impossible being played out in front of them, holding each others' hands, putting their arms around each other, seeking comfort in strangers, but feeling just as alone and exposed, the sudden, loud sounds of sirens woke the people watching the events from their paralysis, as if they had been violently shaken, and suddenly, everything was real and all sounds came back in full strength, as if the world had been muted, and the fire and the sirens were completed with sounds of sudden screams and cries. Police cars, ambulances and fire engines arrived in large numbers, one after the other, and flew past the now re-opened roadblocks and arrived at the Palace. Soon, the flames were being wrestled with by water hoes and the area closest to the building was sealed of, as the firefighters fought against the fire.

At Piccadilly Cirkus, Crowley was unnoticed moving through the crowd of shocked people, gasping for breath, crying silently or swearing. As he walked pats, he heard a young woman, muttering under her breath:

"Oh my god, oh my god..."

Crowley leaned towards the young woman, just as he had passed her, and whispered in her ear:

"Now may not be the best time for blasphemy..."

The woman gasped and turned around, but the ground behind here was empty. She looked around for a few seconds, before quickly leaving the place, her arms wrapped around her body.

* * *

The banging sound was at first distant, as if it was coming from a dream within a dream, to which one could fall deeper into sleep. But the bangs soon turned out to be real, as Ned Warren realized when he woke up and felt the bedroom carpet under him. He slowly opened his eyes to another series of loud knocks on his door. He heard a voice, calling his name:

"Mr Warren! Can you hear me, Me Warren? Open the door or we will be forced to..."

The voice went silent for a few seconds.

"Please open the door, Mr Warren! It's for your own protection!"

Ned felt like he had slept for about three hours, of which the last one on the floor in the bathroom, and both facts were probably true. He got up slowly to a sitting position before standing up, not meeting his own eyes in the mirror, but instead turning on the water, staring down at the white sink. While he waited for the water to warm up, he left the bathroom and staggered to the front door. He opened it and saw three men in suits with serious looks on their faces outside. One of them was holding up a badge, showing it to him. He had to give them some credit. None of them as much as blinked an eye when looking at him and he had a distinct feeling that he looked about as good as he felt.

"Mr Warren, I'm Agent Whedon with the British Secret Service. These are my associates..."

He didn't listen to the rest, but politely stepped aside to let the agents come into the house and waited for the man to finish, before speaking:

"If you'd just excuse me for a minute."

Ned left the agents without waiting for a reply and stepped into his bathroom again, closing the door behind him. He had a distinct feeling that these next minutes were going to be the last ones in a long time when he could decide for himself exactly where he wanted to be, what he wanted to do and when we wanted to do that, and he was going to enjoy them as much as he could. Either, the agents were taking him in to be interrogated once more, and if they wanted to investigate _his _story further, then he guessed he wasn't going to be let out to spread the word. The other alternative was that they weren't agents at all, but nurses, maybe a doctor, in Agent Whedon's case, at a mental ward and that they were claiming that they were agents to make him come with them quietly, and then he would definitely not be going home anytime soon. No, the best thing he could do right now, was to do the best he could with the cards he had been handed, with his position on the board, and close the door to the bathroom behind him for a few minutes, to wash up and shave, quietly, slowly and carefully, and enjoy every minute of it. Ned Warren was tired and had decided to play his hand with resignation, but, at the same time, not accept defeat.

* * *

At the headquarters of MI5 in the Thames House, close to the Palace of Westminister, Mycroft Holmes had been following the explosions in the great building. Many of the houses in the area had been emptied and the streets were practically deserted, apart from the cars arriving in a steady flow to Thames House, to where all members of staff were being called in. Cars were also leaving the building, on their way to Baker Street and Shepherd's Bush, to collect Sherlock and Ned Warren.

The office of Mycroft Holmes provided a movement of peace and quiet, before the storm in the offices, conference rooms and corridors outside, not to mention the living rooms and streets of the city, would be brought to him in the form of the two men arriving. While he was waiting, Mycroft was looking at a live feed on the BBC website of the destruction of the Palace, which had taken place less than a mile from where he was sitting. While he saw the flames consuming the building slowly being soaked and drowned, he was thinking about Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot, wondering if history would come back to haunt the city again, in another form. Even though he was a man of a great intellect, but a limited imagination, he could feel the fear in the heart, the core of the city; a fear that needed to be settled, reassured, or the problems they would have to deal with would soon exceed those already present in the form of the Asgardian Loki. A desperate action calls for a desperate response and Mycroft was hoping that their counterattack could be directed entirely and singly towards Loki. If that would not be the case, plans would have to be made to put the city into an emedient State of Emergency, if that would prove to be necessary. Returning in his mind to the fifth of November 1605, he though about Guy Fawkes being caught with the barrels of gunpowder in the cellar of the Palace of Westminister and his associates, including the leader of the terrorist group, for that time being, remaining hidden in the shadows.

* * *

Charlotte was, once again, attempting to grasp the absurdity of the situation, which had taken another turn on the strange scale, like a wheel being spun at a lottery stand at a tivoli, ending up on a random number. She was walking back and forwards on her living room floor, the blanket still covering her shoulders and back, throwing glances at the TV, fighting feelings of fear, anger, confusion and guilt. The business card was still lying on the floor; its shining white surface enhancing the red letters. More and more details were returning to her, being mixed with images and events from the night's dreams, and she was struggling with separating reality from dream.

Her head swarming with memories, Charlotte sat down on the green carpet in front of the TV and opened a drawer in the TV bench to pick up a notepad and a pen. Glancing at the TV and taking some comfort in seeing the fire being handled by firefighters, Charlotte started joting down her memories of the events of the evening and the night, separating dream from reality as well as she could, at the moment trying to fight of the unnerving questions which at some point would have to be dealt with, of where she would turn with her knowledge and who would believe her. Doing nothing was not an alternative. She had already decided that, without having to give it much thought. Loki had introduced himself to the world, but Charlotte also knew about the other men. She turned the page and started drawing a picture of the man who had visited her last night. It gave some strange comfort to draw a picture of the man whose single name was looking back at her from the card on the floor, as if the picture could make him more comprehensible, maybe more... human. The pen stopped in the middle of a stroke.

* * *

A black Mercedes drew up outside of Baker Street. Mrs Hudson met Sherlock walking down the stairs, as she opened the front door.

"Are you going to see your brother?"

"Yes, Mrs Hudson."

"Have you seen the news? Oh, it's terrible, Sherlock. All of those people. I do hope no one was hurt. Do they have any idea who is responsible?"

"Not that I know of."

Sherlock walked past Mrs Hudson through the front door.

"Do you think it is...?"

She stopped herself before she completed the sentence. Sherlock hesitated for a few seconds before turning to face her with a smile on his face.

"The game is on, Mrs Hudson."

He gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"You better stay here, just to be safe."

He walked up to the car and got into the back seat. The driver drove off without a word.

* * *

Another black Mercedes was at the same time being driven to another part of London. It stopped outside a grand apartment building and two men in dark suits got out of the car. Behind them, another car drew up and two other men got out and joined the others, as all four walked into the building. They stepped into the elevator and, on their way up to the twelfth floor, they charged their weapons. The elevator doors opened and the men stepped outside. They walked quickly up to one of the doors on the left side of the corridor and positioned themselves on both sides of the door. One of the men knocked on the door. A drawling voice was heard from inside the apartment.

"It's open."

The man who had knocked on the door carefully reached down to the handle and pushed it down, slowly opening the door. The men stepped quickly inside the apartment, one after another, their guns raised, pointed towards the kitchen to the left and the living room in front of them. The man who had opened the door pointed with his free hand towards the living room and the men followed him inside the room. They all pointed their guns towards an armchair in front of them, where Jim Moriarty was sitting, calmly looking back at them.

He was dressed in a light grey suit with a white shirt and a light yellow tie. His right leg was folded ovr the other and his right ankle rested on his left knee. Both of his arms rested on the armrests. He tilted his head, asking the armed men:

"What took you so long?"

A few seconds later, he was lifted from the armchair by his right arm. Moriarty kept looking at the man standing closest to the door, while he was searched for weapons.

"He is clean."

The man closest to the door gave a small nod and Moriarty's hands were locked in place behind his back with handcuffs. He was then walked out of his apartment, surrounded by the men, one of them holding a heavy hand on his shoulder. As he was seated in the backseat of the first car, he looked up at the apartment building, and saw one of his neighbours, looking at him through the window. Moriarty met her gaze, still with a slight smile on his face which reached his eyes, the bottomless, dark wells glowing as from an inner light of energetic intellect, boyish mischievousness, a pure lack of empathy and a disturbing calm which could only mean that his boredom had been momentarily satisfied and that he was watching events play out in front of him, like a director watching actors on a stage, and the woman looked into his eyes and quickly pulled back the thin, white curtains. Her shape was visible behind the thin fabric and she didn't move until the car had turned around the corner at the end of the street.


	13. Chapter 13

_Burning, silent and nearly awaken hearts_

The flames consuming the structures of stone and wood which used to be half of the Palace of Westminister, were under control by half past two in the afternoon. The sight of the remaining ruins was distorted by clouds of dark smoke. Water was running down the structures and piles of stone and wood fell down from time to time from the high walls and remaining parts of the roof, causing deafening sounds of breaking stone and cracking wood. Small parts of wood and stone would fly out onto the closed of street or hit the water underneath the building. The ruins were loosely attached to the mostly undamaged second half of the building.

Along the increasing number of people being crowded together on the other side of the Thames, watching the unbelievable scene in silence or crying softly, were Sam and Dean Winchester. They were standing next to each other, taking in the familiar but at the same time alien sight of the famous building falling into pieces. Sam had his hands in the pockets of his dark green jacket and a troubled frown on his face. Dean was leaning against the car, his arms folded over his leather jacket, and he was taking in the sight in silence. After a few minutes, he turned to his younger brother:

"I don't know, Sam. This looks strikingly human to me."

"Could be. But Loki... He could be connected to the other case."

"Or he's just some whack job riding on the same wave."

"I think we should look into this. This could be something new. The New Mexico case definitely was supernatural. Or, at least, you know, not human. And Crowley's here."

"Yeah, I suppose you're right."

Dean sighed. Sam looked at his older brother, who was looking in another direction and, as he had did for so long, Dean looked tired, exhausted even, but there was also something else. He looked as if the sorrows of the world was a burden on his shoulders, his responsibility. And perhaps they were.

Dean looked down on the ground and drew a breath and held it, before looking up at his brother, frowning at the way Sam was looking at him, eyes full of concern and an unspoken question on his lips. Dean interrupted him before he had time to verbalize it.

"So, a library?"

"Yeah, sounds like a plan."

"I saw one not far from the breakfast place. Let's check it out. It's close to the hotel."

"Alright."

The brothers turned to their car. They suddenly stopped and looked towards the water, as another big piece of a former wall broke off and fell down with a loud crash. Dean gazed at the crowd of people, who jerked back at the loud sound.

"If this is supernatural, we'll hunt it down and kill it. I don't care if it is a god."

Sam met his brother's gaze and nodded. Dean smiled as he continued:

"We've killed pagan gods before."

He opened the driver's door to the car. Sam walked around to the passenger side. He opened the door and leaned against it.

"I have a feeling this is different."

"Sam, we beat Lucifer. What is a Norse god compared to the cover boy of evil?"

Sam smiled.

"Speaking of him, do you think Crowley is involved in this?"

He made a gesture towards the destroyed building.

"What would he gain from this?"

The question was left hanging in the air.

"I don't know, Dean."

There was a fire in Sam's eyes which caught Dean by surprise. He recognized it and he wasn't sure that he liked it.

"But I want to find out."

Dean nodded.

"Yeah. Me too."

A minute later, the car was going down Westminister Bridge Road. It crossed the Themes by Waterloo Bridge and drove through Covent Garden to St Pancras.

* * *

The sun was still shining over the city. Only the streets surrounding the Palace of Westminister looked like rain had been pouring down over them. As the minutes passed by, the TV channels came back to life and practically every channel started broadcasting the same imagery of the ruins, the police officers, the fire fighters and the crying men and women, mixed with the explosion, which teared up and sat fire to the heart of the city again and again and again, along with the same face and the same grey glowing eyes and the same laugh and the same words of contradiction, propagating for freedom but against choice, and again and again and again, the heart burst into flames and its inner core was displayed for the world; naked, unshielded, unprotected and raw. Just a skeleton remaining of the building that for less than an hour ago had been vibrant and alive, pulsating memories of the past, happenings of today and promises for tomorrow through the streets. Now the heart was silent, unconscious, perhaps even dead, and the city was silenced as the crippling effect of a pulse no longer beating spread along its veines. But a new sound could be heard, as from the beating of a drum, and sitting alone in the backseat of the moving car, Jim Moriarty beat out its rhythm with his fingers on his knee.


	14. Chapter 14

_Pieces on a board_

Several cars started returning to Thames House. Their passengers were escorted into the building and had to pass metal detectors and security guards. One after one they arrived and took their places, like game pieces on a board, Crowley thought to himself as he stood outside the building, hidden underneath a tree on Millbank, watching the large but surprisingly sleek cars arrive, one after the other. He expected Moriarty to be brought in for questioning, along with other suspected terrorists. The question was how long he would be held. Crowley wasn't at all worried about the man's capability to withstand interrogation, but the Asgardian, famous for being innovative rather than loyal and trustworthy, would need some compaionship during the meantime.

Suddenly, the shadows under the trees were empty. A second later, Crowley could be seen through a window on the second floor, picking up a passcard and an ID card, on which he put a picture of himself which he took out from his inner pocket. After taking a quick look at himself in a mirror hanging next to the door, Crowley left the room.

* * *

Several papers were spread out over the floor and formed a strange pattern, like a star or a pentagram, with the business card in the middle. There was a mix of notes, short sentences, longer paragraphs, maps and drawings. Charlotte had even made a drawing of Loki, standing under a gathering of trees in Regent's Park and the other man standing opposite him. She wasn't an artist, but she was pretty good at drawing.

She was sure that the scene from the park was real. She was also quite confident that she had to spend some more timepiecing together the fragmented memories from the tube ride; she could remember the panic, the empty train, drawing deep breaths with her head between her knees, crying, but she ruled out the possibility that she had actually seen the two men on the train.

One by one, the pieces started forming a pattern, telling a story that she wouldn't have believed in if it hadn't been for the face looking at her from the TV screen. She remembered being at home, the restlessness and anxiety worse than usual, making her leave the house and take the tube, out of habit leaving the train at Warren Street Station, the walk through the busy streets and the silent park, the men in the shadows, their conversation... What had she actually heard? She looked at her notes. _Demon. Fallen god. Intelligent and mad. _Forgotten names. _Healing wounds. King of hell. _

She remembered running, falling. She looked down at her hands. Had she dropped her phone then? Her head hurt, as if it just now remembered the fall. Had she hit her head? She remembered getting home, with shaking hands cleaning her hand from blood in the sink in the bathroom, avoiding to look at her face in the mirror, afraid of what she would see. She had opened a wine bottle, sat down in the sofa. And then the man had shown up... She looked down at her notes and at the drawing. _Crowley_. For the first time since she had found it, she reached out and touched the business card, lifting it up in the air. _Crowley. King of Hell. _Since when does Hell have another king than Lucifer? And what the hell kind of a name is that for a fallen angel? She corrected herself. Not angel. Demon. Her phone being thrown against the wall. She closed her eyes and rested her head in her fingers, trying to think, to remember the details. Had he thrown it into the wall? She couldn't remember him moving. How had he found her? _Demon. _With an attitude. _Me, me, me... Typical, self centered human. _He had wanted to talk about something... _Are you gonna be condensending all night? _He hadn't taken her seriously. So why take the time to explain? She closed her eyes tighter. _There goes the whole wine storage._ He had given her wine from a different bottle than her own. The bottle she thought that he had taken, she had poured out into the sink this morning. Had he been drinking of the wine with the drug in it? She couldn't remember. A thought struck her. What kind of drug was it? Was it still in her system? She'd better check that. _Make a deal, keep it. _The deal that had made it possible for her to escape from being... She dismissed the thought and continued down a new trail, narrowly avoiding a new wave of nausea rushing over her at the memory of the word _hellhound_. She grasped the edge of the table, fighting a sudden feeling of weakness, and suddenly realized that she hadn't had breakfast. Quickly choosing that as a possible, down to earth explanation for her nausea and dizzyness, she decide to continue her puzzle with a cup of coffee and a sandwich.

Charlotte got up from the floor and walked into the kitchen. The coffee maker had turned itself off and she send a thought of gratefulness to the automatic timer which had turned of the coffee maker, as she poured out the now cold coffee, which had been brewing when she fainted, and prepared a new round. While she waited, she fixed herself a couple of wholegrain sandwhiches with cheese and cucumber. When the coffee was ready, and halfway into her first sandwich, she poured up a cup, choosing to keep it black and steaming, and brought her cup and the sandwiches into the livingroom. The coffee was strong and bitter on her tongue and tasted wonderful.

While she ate, Charlotte started to make up a plan for the first important steps of the day: getting a new phone, researching Loki and Crowley and getting a doctor's appointment. She wasn't looking forwards to the last part. She expected questions she couldn't answer. A faint voice in her head asked her if she wanted them answered. She hid the voice away deep inside and took another zip of coffee. This time, she couldn't taste it.


	15. Chapter 15

_Do not go gentle into that good night_

St Pancras library was a large building with a high ceiling. The sunlight was reaching into the building, reflecting of the light surfaces of the walls and the furniture. The footsteps of the few visitors echoed of the floor. The building was unusally quiet for a Saturday afternoon. A computer at the information desk was playing out a live newsprogram from the attack by the Thames. Sam and Dean walked up to the desk. Dean leaned against it. The librarian behind the desk was looking at the computer with his back turned against them. Sam cleared his throat and the man turned around to face them. He was dressed in a tweed jacket with a striped shirt and a deep red tie. He had round glasses and short hair that looked like he just had run his fingers through it.

"Yes? Can I help you, sir?"

The man smiled politely, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. Sam glanced at the computer. Dean answered him:

"Do you have any computers where we could work?"

"Ah, Americans. I've missed hearing American voices."

"Oh. You've been over there?"

"Yes, I..." The man fidgeted with his glasses and now his smile looked genuine.

"I lived there for a few years. Just got back, actually."

"Where did you live?"

"In California. A small town, you wouldn't know it."

"I might surprise you, my friend. I'm used to small towns."

"It's called Sunnydale."

"Sunnydale? No, don't think I've been there. Nice town?"

The man smiled again and looked like he was lost in his memories for a couple of seconds.

"It had its benefits. About your computer; there are workstations on different floors. You need something called a user account to use one. Just one second..."

The man turned to his computer and closed the window of the browser. Then, he opened another program and started looking around the screen, choosing a few alternatives but going back again. He muttered to himself:

"Dreadful thing... I'd rather take on a vampire any day."

"Sorry?"

"Oh, nothing. Just getting used to the new system."

Dean looked over at where Sam had been standing, to seek confirmation on what he thought that he had heard, but Sam wasn't there anymore. He saw him standing over by a large information sign, displaying the location of different categories of books.

"Can I borrow an ID, please?"

"Sure."

Dean took out his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and handed the librarian an ID card. The man started writing on his keyboard, occassionally looking up at the screen and deleting something and typing again. After a few minutes, he handed the card back to Dean.

"Thank you, Mr Tennant."

He turned to his computer again and printed out Dean's account information. While he was working, Dean looked at him, wondering if he might have heard right. If not, it was just another sign that he probably, for his own mental health's sake, should change business. But he knew that that wasn't an alternative. He had long ago come to terms with where his lifestyle would lead him. Dean glanced over at Sam again. He seemed to have found what he was looking for and was now searching a map of the library. He scratched his left arm for several seconds and bit his lip, closing his eyes before turning back to the map. Dean frowned, wondering if Sam was struggling with his addiction. The librarian's voice stole his attention.

"Here you go, sir."

He handed him a paper where he could read a username and a password.

"Please change the password the first time you use the computer. If you want to print anything, you can pick it up here."

"Thank you."

"Thank you and good luck."

He said the last words with empasis. Dean had taken a step away from the desk, but stopped and gave the man a quizzical look, but he just smiled back. He went over to where Sam was standing.

"I have found the section on mythology. I can start there and you can start with the Internet?"

"Alright. Let's get to work."

Dean looked back at the librarian again and saw his eyes following them behind the round glasses.

* * *

This room was different from the on he had sat in the night before. Ned Warren looked around. He was sitting by a large writing desk made of solid wood in an office decorated with bookshelves and paintings. There were plants in the window and papers in neat piles next to the computer screen and keyboard on the desk. This was a room which someone spend time in. Not just a room where unvoluntarily visitors sat and waited to be interrogated. And Ned was dressed for the occassion. He had put on a light blue shirt, a grey longsleaved sweater and dark jeans. Despite his lack of sleep, he looked good. And that felt important right now. Cause Ned Warren had never felt so lost and out of place as he did now. A part of him was angry. Angry at the Scotland Yard for keeping his car. Angry at the agents who had abruptly woken him from the little sleep he had gotten. Angry at himself for not taking a different route the night before. Angry at the terrorist alien god for stepping into his car. At the same time, he was scared as hell, out of mostly the same reasons; a fear which had been substantiously multiplied when he learned about the events of the morning. However, a small part of him was also... intrigued. Fascinated, maybe. He was, after all, sitting in an office at the MI5. There was also a sense of relief. The attack had been terrible, but no one had died, it seemed like. A few people had been taken to the hospital with injuries from the explosion. But Loki had showed his face to the world and confirmed his existence. Now, no one had reason to disbelieve him. He was glad that he had sought help the night before. If he had walked into a police station this morning to claim that he took the terrorist to London, no one would probably listen to him. There was something else, though. The agents had said that they needed to take him in for his own protection. That he might be in danger, from Loki or from the other man, who had yet to introduce himself to the world. Ned hoped that this mostly had been an excuse, a motivation, perhaps, for him to come with them. At the same time, he knew that they probably wouldn't think that they needed that. He put his hand on his jumping knee. He decided to cling to the slight feeling of excitement. The fucking MI5. God damn. Then the door was opened behind him.

In a different room in the same building, another man was waiting to give an account of his involvement in the attack, his possible link to Loki and, preferably, the Asgardian's location. This one, however, was not as willing to cooperate.

"Mr Holmes..."

He drew out the vowel sound in the second word, addressing the man who had just stepped into the room without even turning around to look at him. Mycroft stepped into the room and up to the man sitting in the chair by the table in the middle of the room.

"...senior. What a disappointment."

He pronounced the last world in a high pitched voice with the intonation rising at the end of the sentence. His eyes were open wide and he didn't even seem to notice the fact that he was handcuffed to the chair. But, apparently he did. He lifted his right a bit, the chain rattling against the steel frame of the chair.

"Is this really necessary?"

"Jim Moriarty..."

Mycroft looked down at the man.

"There's only one thing I'm interested in right now. Which you are filled with?"

"Oh? Go on..."

"Delight or devastation? It must be one of them."

Moriarty laughed softly.

"What are we talking about?"

The same strange intonation and the high pitched voice. Moriarty was looking straight ahead, with the same big, shining eyes. It suddenly struck Mycroft. He looked as if he was high. And in a way, he guessed he was. That answered his question.

"Thank you for your cooperation."

Mycroft left the room. Moriarty kept looking ahead, smiling to himself. The guard standing next to the door who was watching the man thought that he looked like he was in his own world. He hoped that they would be able to pin something on him this time which would actually hold up in court. And something as big as this, not even Jim Moriarty would be able to buy, threaten, deceive or lie himself out of.

* * *

There was a slight wind, but it was enough to carry the faintest smell of smoke and traces of ash several miles away. Loki reached out his hand and touched the air, letting the black particles caress his skin. He drew a breath and caught the sense of smoke, of fire. It reminded him of the thick air of a battlefield. It was a familiar smell and one he appreciated. True, he had never been as comfortable on a battleground as his brother was, but he had had his moments of glory. He lifted his hand, the palm facing upwards, and gathered some small pieces of ash in the air above his hand, letting them circle in the air.

Loki was standing on the roof to Moriarty's apartment building. He could see the smoke from the Palace rising up in the air at a distance. The promise of victory was searching through his veines, setting fire to and blinding his heart. He was sure this was going to be easy, but he wasn't going to underestimate the humans. With the right tools, he was confident of winning. Then, he could show Odin that he was a rightful king, that he had wronged him when denying him his throne, his birthright. Not that he ever wanted to lead. Too many responsibilities. He had just wanted to be given the opportunity, to be recognized as his brother's equal. They had forced his hand. Now, he was going to prove them wrong. A Frostgiant on the throne of Earth. That would lead them back to him. Or maybe him back to Asgard. He closed his eyes and could see the Palace, feel the touch of familiar fabrics and surfaces, sense the smell of the food, hear the familiar noises of rustling armour and his brother's laugh, feel the soft touch of his mother's hand... The ashes were caught by the wind as it won the struggle and carried them of, high up in the air. Loki closed his fist, but couldn't catch them. He watched them fly away in the breeze.

* * *

Charlotte left her apartment and found, to her surprise, that life went on, almost as usual, despite of the morning's attack. The sun was shining and people out on their usual errands, carrying shopping bags and headphones or talking on the phone, were passing her by on the busy streets. She had used her computer to find a clinic for urgent care. She guessed that being drugged could be counted in that category. The thought send chills down her arms, despite the warmth of the sun. She was expecting questions she couldn't answer, looks of concern she didn't want. Fuck their pity.

She lifted her neck and put on a pair of sunglasses, as if they could be an armour against the well-meaning questions which would be directed towards her and which would set free fears that she now kept hidden deep inside.

The doctor's appointment at St Bartholomew's Hospital was at four, so she would have time to pick up a late lunch before and also get a new phone. She had had her eyes on one for a while and now was a good opportunity to treat herself a bit. She went to the tube station and took Victoria line to Oxford Cirkus.

On the train, she could hear nothing else than discussions about the attack. Facts mixed with half-truths, theories and absurdities. There was a mix of fear and curiosity. People had perhaps expected something similar, but not of this scale and not by an alien god. And definitely not accompanied by punk music.

The faces of the men, of Loki and of Crowley, kept showing up in Charlotte's mind. The business card was lying in her pocket. She reached her hand into it and touched it. The red letters were printed in relief and she traced the letters of the name and the numbers with her finger. Sensing them, hearing one of the names being repeated around her, helped her to grasp the situation, to get a feeling of control. Or maybe it was just the distance that had been created between the demon and herself. At least for now. And that was the reason why she feared going to the doctor later. It would remind her of how little control she in fact had.

The train arrived at Green Park and started slowing down. The people waiting on the platform looked blurry from inside the moving train. She saw a hint of a dark coat and a familiar face in the crowd. She closed her eyes, let go of the card and pushed her finger nails into the wound in the palm of her hand.

* * *

Mycroft had hardly left Moriarty before he was caught walking down the long, bleak corridor by one of the assistants.

"Sir! Excuse me, sir!"

"Yes, Pond?"

"Ned Warren and Sherlock Holmes have arrived. Reynolds is talking to Warren, Holmes is waiting in your office."

"Thank you."

Mycroft went down to the end of the long corridor and pushed the button for the elevator. He didn't have to wait long for it to arrive and take him up to the sixth floor. While he stood in the elevator, he went through his recent messages. The firefighters had been able to confirm that there had been no casulties after the attack and the ones who had been taken to hospital were all expected to make full recoveries. Mycroft let out a sigh of relief. For now, he let public relationships for others to handle. His job was to find who ever was responsible and put them to justice. The villain had presented his identity and his purpose to the world. The next step, was to find him and the ones working for him. Mycroft was confident that one of them was sitting locked to a chair in the cellar, but he could't keep him there forever. Also, there could be benefits from letting him out. He could lead them to Loki. But there was something no adding up in this equation. Moriarty must have known he was going to be taken in. And Loki, the god of mischief, could surely not be left on his own, without being monitored. Moriarty couldn't possible put so much trust in him.

Also, it all had gone too fast. The day after Loki arrived to Earth, for the first time in who knows how long, his face got broadcast on Picadilly Circus and on every TV screen in the city, and half the Palace of Westminister gets blown up. That's not a one day operation, far from it, even if you're Jim Moriarty and an Asgardian, with yet unforseen powers and technology. The examples of Asgardian technology they already had seen being put to use in New Mexico had almost destroyed the city centre of a smaller town, but the methods had been completely different. The whole operation reaked of Jim Moriarty and of months, maybe years, of planning. Mycroft guessed that Loki had come into the picture much later. All the evidence suggested that Loki's appearance had been pure luck for Moriarty. At the most, he guessed that it had made Moriarty put his plans into action sooner. The reason of involving Loki was obvious. The man who put a name, and now a face, to the epithet_ mischief _pared together with one of the most intelligent, skilled, talented, mad and furiously bored villains England have ever seen. But still, there was another piece here, conncting the two, that was escaping Mycroft's equation; he was sure of it.

The elevator stopped at the second floor. The doors opened and a man got in. He nooded to Mycroft.

"Good afternoon."

Mycroft nodded back.

"Good afternoon."

"Nasty business this, innit?"

"It certainly is..."

"I heard we're bringing in extra support."

"Yes, we need all the help we can get."

He muttered to himself:

"Unfortunately..."

The other man laughed softly.

"Very true, sir."

The doors opened on the sixth floor and both men stepped out. Mycroft took a step to the right. The other man stayed by the elevator. He turned to Mycroft.

"Good luck to you, sir."

"Good luck to us all."

Mycroft started walking down the corridor towards his office. He felt as if the other man's eyes were following him. He turned around, but the long corridor behind him was completely empty.

* * *

Ned Warren turned around to see who had stept into the room. He met a friendly, even smiling face and two sparkling, light brown eyes. He realized then that this was the first time since he left work the night before that this had happened. He found it a bit embarrasing to admit, even to himself, but the sight send a warm, pleasant shiver through his body, relaxing him slightly. The police officer who had listened to his story and not immediately dismissed him or thrown him into a cell, Scotland Yard, Mycroft Holmes, even the agents banging at his door this morning, had all given him some sense of security, even afte he had heard about the bomb exploding in central London, but this was the first time since this started that he felt as if someone cared about him. It was a pleasant feeling and one that he was in dying need of. He was aware of it and therefore at the same time on his guard against the honest, interested eyes, soft smile and light but determined handshake that belonged to the man whose office he was sitting in. Ned still wondered what they wanted from him. He had told his story, twice even, in full detail, yesterday evening and, regardless of this morning's events, he couldn't see that there was anything else he could add. The agents had said that he was here for his own protection but, in that case, why was he sitting in an office at MI5 in central London and not in a little cabin somewhere out in the middle of nowhere? He repeated these questions, silently for himself, and was prepared to wait to get to ask them.

"Mr Warren, I'm Reynolds. Let me start of by saying how very sorry I am that you got involved in this situation."

The man let go after his hand after several seconds. Ned looked at him as he walked around to the other side of the table and sat down, still smiling slightly and with the same look of concern on his face. What was this? Good cop, stiff cop?

"Have you been offered anything?"

At the thought of drinks, Ned's stomach reminded him of how empty it was. It was well into the afternoon and he hadn't eaten anything since early in the evening the night before.

"I am quite hungry, actually."

"I think we can arrange something. I can only imagine how you're feeling right now and, again, I am deeply sorry that we have to bring you into this again."

Ned nodded. He didn't know what to say. He hadn't expected this. He wondered if that was the idea, to throw him of guard. He sat up a bit straighter in his chair and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt.

"Thank you. Anything I can do to help..."

Please just let me eat and sleep. His vision had started to get blurry after he realied how long it had been since he had eaten anything.

"We appreciate that, Mr Warren... Ned. Can I call you Ned?"

It was definitely a part of his act. Fine, he would play along. At least, he preferred the good cop routine.

"Sure."

"So, Ned, we have a few questions about your experiences yesterday which are of vital importance to the ongoing investigation of this morning's attack."

"I had that feeling."

"I imagine that you might have some questions for us as well, but..."

Ned mustered the last of his strength and spoke out clearly, with a slightly raised voice, interrupting Reynolds.

"In fact I do. Why am I here for my own protection? What do I need to be protected from?"

The man on the other side of the table sighed and leaned back in is chair, the look of concern again on his face. Definitely an act. Hopefully. The man's calm eyes met his. A part of him took comfort in them still. Another part hated that smug expressions of pity.

"Ned..."

Using his first name, again. You try that, see how far that will get you. His hands started to tremble.

"From your description, we have drawn the conclusion that the man who hijacked your car yesterday was Loki."

Ned nodded once to confirm this.

"We have no reason to believe that you purpose any risk or threat to him."

Ned crossed his arms, waiting for the man to continue.

"However, we take great interest in the second man you mentioned in your statement. He has yet not been identified, simply because he has chosen not to be, and we are concerned that he might consider you a risk."

That was what he had thought, but to hear it said out loud didn't provide any comfort. Ned nodded again, slowly, hiding his hands underneath his crossed arms.

"However, I do need to ask you again: Are you completely confident that there was another man int he car with you?"

Ned frowned.

"Yes, I am."

"And that he appeared out of thin air?"

"I realize how this sounds, but, yes, I am sure."

"He couldn't have been hiding in the backseat?"

"I put my bag in the backseat before driving of, so, no, he couldn't have been hiding there. And, I would have noticed if someone opened the door after that."

"Alright. I hear you. Now, we..."

The machine on the table gave a short signal and Reynolds pressed a button on it.

"Yes?"

"Sir, Mr Holmes wishes to see you."

Reynolds stood up quickly, buttoned his jacket, and turned to Ned.

"Excuse me."

Ned made a gesture with his right hand, signaling that he accepted the apology. Reynolds left the room with quick steps and closed the door behind him. After less than half a minute, the door was opened again. Ned turned his head slightly to the side, addressing Reynolds:

"That didn't take long. How about that lunch?"

A dark, raspy voice was heard from behind him.

"I'm afraid lunch will have to wait, Mr Warren."

* * *

About the same time as Ned was waiting for his late lunch, Charlotte was sitting at the Argyll Arms, eating a burger. She had bought a new Samsung, which had cost her 470 pounds, taken from her savings. A part of her was secretely pleased with getting a new phone. As she finished her burger, she looked at her watch. She had postponed having to leave as long as she could, but now it was definitely time. Charlotte grabbed her bag and got up from her seat. When she left the warm, loud pub and came out on to the street, the sunlight blinded her and the light breeze found its way through her clothing. She tightened the belt around her waist, put on her sunglasses and headed for Oxford Circus.

* * *

After Reynolds had left his office, he had to walk down a few corridors up to an elevator, which took him to the sixth floor. He found Holmes waiting for him in the corridor outside of his office.

"Mycroft."

"Malcolm."

The two men shook hands.

"Terrible, this."

"Yes, it definitely is. Is Warren keeping to his story?"

"Yes, he seems quite confident. And, I can't put my finger on why, but I find myself unable to disregard him."

"Well, if we can have mythological creatures, I suppose we can have ghosts, as well."

Reynolds chuckled, but soon looked serious again.

"What worries me is that, if Warren is telling the truth, that would mean that we're dealing with non-human creatures who were previously unaware of each other, but who now, it would appear, have started working together."

"That is indeed an unpleasant thought."

"Also, there must be a human element, months of planning, behind this."

"It is possible that Loki has had his eyes set on earth for much longer than we have been aware of his existence."

"Troublesome, indeed. Well, I better head back. I have promised Mr Warren some lunch."

"You take care of our guest, Malcolm, and update me on any news."

"I'll keep you posted."

Mycroft stepped into his office and Reynolds started walking back down the corridor. He continued to the elevator and followed it down to the first floor. He left the building and the chill of the air struck him as he walked outside. It gave him the kick he needed and he stopped just outside of the doors in the sunlight, taking a couple of deep breaths, filling his lungs with cold air, before stepping down the stairs. The air helped his brain to start working with new vigour. He needed to get a grip of the situation. He was involved in maybe the biggest, most important, investigation of modern times and he was tired, overworked, even before stepping into it.

He had been planning to take some time off. When coming home from work late in the evenings, he had several time come home to his wife, sitting in her corner of the sofa, a travel brochure in her hands, smiling at him from beneath the thick black plastic frames of her glasses. He would often sit down next to her and listen to her when she talked about a certain place where they could go, as if she was telling him a story, and he would get to see the world from the perspective of the travel agencies and also, more importantly, through her longing, blue eyes.

A few days ago, he had contacted his collagues at MI6 to get an update on the security level of Australia. He got some comforting news and later that day, they had started making more detailed plans.

Now, as Reynolds walked down Thorney street, he thought about the veil which had passed over his wife's eyes when they had sat next to each other in the sofa earlier that day and watched the Palace of Westminister burn, the brochures in a pile on the coffee table next to his phone, which had started ringing. His wife, who sat closest to it, leaned over the table, picked up the phone and handed it to her husband. Their eyes met and they put their arms quickly and simultaneously around each other, before he answered the phone, standing up and walking away from the sofa.

When he later that day had stood in front of the mirror in the hallway, wrapping a scarf around his neck, his wife had come up behind him. She had looked like she was searching for something to say and he had felt the same. He had wondered if she was scared. He definitely knew that he was, but those feelings had had to wait until the time when he would come home again. He had turned away from the mirror and his wife had given him a quick kiss before he had walked out the door. His wife had walked back into the living room and sat down in the sofa again. She had picked up the pile of brochures and put them on the shelf beneth the table.

* * *

The temperature in the room dropped quickly and chills of a kind he had never experienced before found their way over his entire body. The fear seemed to be coming from inside and searched its way from the core of his soul through every part of his body, making his arms and legs shiver and twist, his face sweat, his mouth dry out and his eyes open wide. It was a physical sensation of fear unlike any he had ever felt before and he couldn't stop trembling, even though he couldn't move. The only thing he could do was to blink. He tried to lift a finger, but nothing happened. He couldn't move his head. When he realized this, the overwhelming fear which had captivated his body took a turn for the worse. Because this wasn't fear. This was something entirely different. And the person standing behind him seemed to be enjoying it. He heard a soft laughter. It felt as if the person controlling his body was feasting on his fear, but he couldn't sum up a trace of anger, only silent pleads which couldn't escape unmoving lips.

In front of his frozen eyes, a shadow appeared. The man from the car. Even though he had recognized the voice, seeing him standing there in front of him still felt like if a bottomless hole in his stomach was emptying his mind and body of sensefull thoughts, leaving his heart to let out its caged panic.

"I thought I would find you here. You have been misbehaving, Ned."

Ned felt as if he were a puppet controlled by strings attached to the man's fingers and his only wish was to follow the words spoken by that dark voice, to obey and to satisfy. He was to afraid to feel any embarrasment or shame.

"Your new friend is getting lunch for you, so we don't have so much time."

For the first time since the man had stepped into the room, Ned had a pleasant thought, felt a sprinkle of joy. Soon, this would be over and the man would have to leave. Soon, he would be saved. He started to listen for sounds from the other side of the door.

"The name's Crowley. I am the King of Hell. And you, my friend, are not on my good list at the moment."

Ned couldn't answer, even if he had known what to say.

"Can I assume that you have told them everything you know? Blink once for yes."

Ned blinked once, carefully and slowly.

"Which is not much, I suppose. What do you know, human?"

He made a movement in the air with his right hand.

"Speak."

Suddenly, Ned regained control of his body and let out a breath. His arms fell to his sides. His voice was strangely hoarse.

"That you're not human and that Loki is some kind of... alien."

"And?"

"And that you have some common... business."

He swallowed hard. He realized that it sounded as an accusation of involvement in the morning's events.

"And?"

"That's everything."

His voice was weak.

"Here's the deal, Ned. You won't mention _anything _else that your pathetic little mind might conjure up. They will probably send a sketcher who will draw up a picture of me, based on your descriptions. Now, we can't have pictures of my pretty face in connection to the little incident this morning, can we?"

Ned didn't answer.

"So, if I see a picture that looks anything like me, I'll come back. Otherwise, you won't need to see me again. Do we have an understanding?"

Ned nodded.

"Alright. Let's see if you behave as good as the other one."

Crowley put his hand on Ned's shoulder as he walked past him. Ned waited to hear the door open, but no sound ever came. He turned around, but the space behind him was empty. It took him several minutes to start breathing normally again.

* * *

"Ms Wilde? I'm Doctor Watson."

Charlotte looked up at the man standing a few metres away. He was dressed in a white coat over a light grey pullover and had short, well-trimmed hay-coloured hair and friendly eyes. She fought again the part of her which wanted to stay on the chair, which felt too small for her, in the waiting room. Instead, she got up from her seat and walked up to the doctor. When she got closer, she saw how young he was, not older than in his thirtees. She was immediately intrigued by the handsome man with the young face and those eyes... He looked a bit tired, or rather, out of his element, like he also wanted to be, or maybe as if he were, somewhere else. She wondered where his mind travelled with him when he sat alone in the small room which she followed him into. When she had hung up her trenchcoat and sat down opposite him, his arm resting on a desk to his left with a pen in his hand and she twisting her fingers in her lap, his soft, intriguing eyes couldn't distract her any longer.

"Ms Wilde... Charlotte."

She looked up at him.

"I can assure you, there is nothing I haven't heard before or can't help you with."

She took a deep breath and looked up at the man. 'Ok, here we go.'

"I need to do a blood test."

* * *

The door opened and Mycroft stepped into his office. His younger brother stood in the middle of the room. His curls were now neatly arranged and he was wearing his usual coat and dark purple scarf. He was holding a pair of black leather gloves in his right hand, which rested next to his other hand on his back. Sherlock Holmes, the detective, the hero that the people deserved. And the only one who for the moment could satisfy Jim Moriarty. But Mycroft would never sacrifice his brother to please the furiously hungry dragon. He knew that he would need to let Moriarty go. It didn't serve any purpose keeping him. You couldn't reason with, threaten, hurt or bribe the man whose insides, he imagined, were a pit of ice. He had tried all of them. The only access they had to the mad fire which burned where there was supposed to be a heart was Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock."

"Ah, dear brother."

Sherlock rubbed his hands together.

"When do we start?"

"We have Moriarty. I believe he wants to see you."

A shadow passed over Sherlock's eyes.

"To brag, no doubt."

"Yes. But he's too smart to admit anything."

"Naturally. So, willl you take me to him?"

Mycroft opened the door.

"How could I resist?"

Sherlock took a step towards the door, a smile on his face.

"Have I missed something, Sherlock?"

"Oh, brother, but this is fantastic! Mythology coming to life, the spider in your basement pulling strings with all eight legs, no doubt. Let's see if we can find out who his puppets are and make them realize how tied up they are. Maybe they will turn on their master..."

Picking up his mobile phone, he passed his brother with a few quick steps and it looked almost as if he were dancing. He reminded Mycroft of how Moriarty had looked like on the security tapes just before he broke the glass which protected the crown jewels.

* * *

The needle pierced her skin and she felt a quick pinch in her skin, which passed quickly. Charlotte waited and soon, the nurse told her that it was ready. She got a small bandage wrapped around her arm and pulled down the sleeve of her sweater over it. The bandage bulked a bit under the thin fabric. She was told to sit down in the waiting room again. She opened the door and stepped out into the room, taking a seat just outside the door, near a window. She pulled at the hem of the sweater, which kept sliding up, as the fabric stretched over the bandage. It felt like an hour later, but it was probably a lot less, that the doctor finally stepped out into the room and called her name.

"Ms Wilde..."

She got up from her chair quickly and walked up to the open door, which the doctor stood next to, avoiding to look at him. She walked into the small room and sat down in the same chair, which she already felt strangely accustomed to. It was like returning to a place where she felt safe. Now she met the doctor's gaze as he sat down opposite her.

"Ms Weaver, there are no traces of any substances in your blood."

He paused and let the news sink in, watching her relieved reaction.

"It strikes me as peculiar, since I had expected differently."

"That's ok."

"I would like you to do some more check-ups, if you don't mind..."

Ok, here it'd come. She held her breath and met his gaze.

"I would like for you to have an examination at our gynecological reception, as well."

Charlotte nodded. She had expected this and she would be damned if she would feel any shame.

"That sounds about right, doctor. When can I go?"

The doctor gave her a slightly peculiar look.

"They have a doctor waiting for you."

Charlotte stood up and held out her hand. The doctor rose to.

"Thank you, doctor. Could you point me in the right direction?"

The doctor took her hand and held it.

"Take a left when you pass the glass doors and follow the signs."

"I will do that. Thanks."

She let go of his hand and hung her coat over her arm.

"Ms Wilde... Good luck. It really is strange..."

"What is?"

"I had a similar case not long ago, concerning another patient of mine, with a similar story. He could hardly remember a thing, except that he probably had been drugged, by a person unknown to him. He couldn't even remember how he had met this person, just the vaguest memory of a man... We couldn't find any traces in his blood, either. Ms Wilde, do I have your permission to report your case to the police?"

His words send chills down her arms and she hoped he couldn't see it. She tugged at the sleeve again.

"Doctor Watson, I appreciate your concern, but I would like to finish my check-ups first... I'll keep you posted."

"You really don't need to feel the need to..."

"It's all right. I trust you."

"Ok, then. I'll wait to hear from you."

"Your phone is ringing."

She smiled, opened the door and walked out. John Watson stood looking at the door for a few seconds before he picked up his phone. Sherlock.

"Yeah?"

"John! Finally, you pick up! I've been texting you and calling you practially all day! It's an emergency!"

"What?"

"Can't you hear me, John? Oh, never mind. There's a car on the way to pick you up. It's probably already there."

John walked up to the window of the room and looked out. Sure enough, an official looking black car was parked just outside the building.

"Sherlock, I know that there has been a big attack, but I'm working. People still get sick, you know... And we need the money."

"This take precedence."

He hung up.

* * *

Another waiting room. She had hardly sat down before her name was called by a female voice.

"Charlotte Wilde..."

Another deep, quick breath. 'Let's get this done.' She walked up the the middle-aged doctor and shook her hand.

"This way, please."

A long corridor. This one looked much more like a hospital. White walls, white doors, the sound of soft shoes against plastic floors, posters about STDs. They arrived at the right room and she stepped inside. The doctor closed the door behind them.

"Should we start right away?"

"Yes, that's ok."

Charlotte was grateful for not having to wait any longer. The room was spinning a bit and then the thought hit her. 'What am I doing here? How did it come to this?' She couldn't afford to feel sorry for herself. She closed her eyes for a couple of seconds and she suddenly felt tired. But when she opened her eyes, there were no traces of her chaotic mind. Her eyes shone and she took comfort in the strength she felt. She looked up at the doctor.

"We can start."

* * *

Several minutes later, the door opened. Ned turned around in his chair and saw Reynolds stepping into the room, two paper bags in his hand.

"I was gonna go with sandwhiches and pasta salad, but, if you have had a similar day as me, you haven't eaten since breakfast either, so..."

He put the bags on the table between himself and Ned.

"... Whoppers and Coke?"

Ned somehow managed to smile and he thought that he looked quite neutral. Apparently, not as much as he thought.

"Ned, again, I am so sorry that you had to be involved in this. Now, let's eat, and then we'll continue. Alright?"

Ned couldn't believe it, but he was actually hungry, so he gratefully grabbed one of the bags, opened it and started picking up its contents. He needed food in his stomach to be able to think and he was thankful for the silence in the conversation.

* * *

"Ah, Sherlock, finally..."

"Moriarty... Having fun?"

"I have no idea what you mean... I am handcuffed to a chair and that's not really my thing."

The words dripped like thick, bitter honey from his lips.

"What do you want from me?"

Moriarty laughed softly, in a voice which sounded distant, as if it was coming from a place far away, in another window-less cell, where Moriarty's mind lived and thrived.

"An audience... I'm a dancer on a stage. Watch how I soar..."

"And you have been busy choreographing for quite some time now, I believe. Found a new friend?"

"Can't you hear it, Sherlock?"

Moriarty lifted his head and looked up at the roof.

"The rain..."

He made a movement with his fingers, indicating rain drops hitting the ground.

"It's raining, it's pouring, my whispers are soaring... Say bye bye to summer, Sherlock."

"You have plans?"

"Oh, I'm learning from you. You do have your moments, temporarily interrupting your ongoing terrible dullness. Admit it, Sherlock. How would your pathetic, ordinary life be without me?"

"I remember doing absolutely fine without you."

"Oh, but I was always there, in the shadows..."

Moriarty flashed his teeth, growling quietly.

"... pulling the strings. You just couldn't see me. But I could see you, little mouse. Running around on the board, around and around, taking the wrong turn and then finding little leads, helping you to find the way out. You had such promise... But, you disappoint me. I believed in you... You still have a chance, but you will disappoint."

"I was watching you as you were watching me..."

"If only that were true... Naw, you're boring, Sherlock."

"The spider with his web... But I think you may have taken on something you can't handle this time. Can spiders really swim?"

Moriarty answered with a soft laughter, which sounded as if it was echoing of the walls of his empty insides, sending chills down the guard's arms.

"Oh, I'm not planning to get in deep."

"You are dealing with something, with someone, that you don't understand."

"And you do? You had enough time to study yours?"

"And in there lies your second weakness. You are incapable of understanding, and therefore of controlling, your little pets."

"I know what they want. And I can give them what they want."

"I don't think this one knows what he wants."

"Just as yours, then."

"Neither of us are locked up in a cell."

"I will get out soon."

"I wasn't talking about this one."

Sherlock walked over to the door, where Mycroft was waiting.

"I am sure I will hear from you."

"You will hear my whisper..."

The guard opened the door and Sherlock turned around to look at Moriarty, who had turned his head towards him, holding up his hand, palm up.

"... and like that..."

He blew in the air and watched something invisible fly up in the air.

"... it'll be gone."

He grinned at Sherlock, who stepped out of the room, followed by his brother.

"Bye, Sherlock..."

Moriarty was still grinning as the door to the room closed.

* * *

Her legs surrended as she elevator door closed behind her. Refusing to fall, she put up a hand against the flat wall. Her fingers scratched against the surface as she tried to find a grip. She wasn't going to fall. The elevator plunged. She closed her eyes. Her fingers flat against the wall. A soft whimper from closed lips. A silent thought which slipped out between her lips. She heard her own voice:

"Thank you."

She didn't know who she was thanking, but the doctor appointments couldn't have gone better. No injuries, no signs of sexual assult, no drugs in her blood. A sound was heard as the doors glide open. She opened her eyes and let go of the wall. In front of her was the hospital cafeteria, behind glass doors. She needed coffee and sugar. Charlotte walked out of the elevator and into the cafe. Soon, she was sitting in a sofa by a wall, with her bag on the seat next to her, a cup of coffee and a large chocolate bar on the table in front of her. Feeling a lot better than she had done that morning, she still decided that some distraction probably would do her good. She had plans, for once, for the night. She had got an invitation to the opening of an exhibition of Viking artefacts at British Museum. She was responsible for the sections on history, mythology and folklore at the library, so they had found it fitting to invite her. She hadn't minded at all and was looking forwards to seeing the exhibition, even if mingling wihth strangers was a thought that scared the life out of her almost as much as Crowley did.

Charlotte took out an iPad mini from her bag and started it. She needed to think, which meant that she needed to write, but, before that, she needed to check the net to see if there was any news on Loki and on Crowley. While she waited for the pad to get ready, she picked up the business card from her pocket and held it in front of her. Crowley. Loki. And the third man... The human. 'I'm gonna track you down.' For the first time that day, Charlotte smiled.


	16. Chapter 16

_Us against the world_

John couldn't see the face of the driver and he was alone in the backseat.

"Where are we going?"

A pair of curious brown eyes could suddenly be seen in the back mirror.

"MI5, Doctor Watson."

"Oh, that's nice."

He spoke more to himself than with the driver.

"And new..."

They continued down Farringdon Street in silence. As the car drove out on Victoria Embankment, with the Thames on their left side, Watson leaned to the left to look out through the window. The smoke had cleared in the sky, but the streets were crowded with onlookers. This was a sight they would tell their grandchildren about and it seemed as if everyone wanted to say that they were there, as the Palace of Westminister burned. There was a mixture of emotions in the air. A lot of people were standing, watching, talking to one another. Many were taking photos or filming with their mobile phones. A few were weeping. Some were silent. The area was still sealed off, so the car had to make a right turn and pass Charing Cross. They then continued towards Piccadilly "They have sealed off the entire area around the Palace of Westminister and Buckingham Palace", the driver explained.

"I can see why... Maybe Loki feels threatened by other royals."

He met the driver's eyes in the mirror. The man looked as if he wasn't sure if Watson was joking or not. He wasn't sure himself. They continued down Piccadilly, past Green Park, and approached the MI5 through Victoria. When they finally turned onto Millbank, they were soon stopped by men and women in police uniforms, demanding IDs and confirming their arrival via radio, before letting the car pass.

The sight of the uniforms, the weapons and the road blocks made the lunch turn in Watson's stomach. Every time he blinked, the uniforms changed colour and a layer of sand and dust covered his sight. He blinked again and the uniforms were once again dark blue and the sunlight hitting his eyes as he got out of the car came with a chilly autumn breeze rather than a chokingly hot desert wind.

John had to show his ID again and wait for a confirmation before he was allowed to enter the majestetic Thames house. Stepping into the building, he had to wait a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the different light. A woman in a wrinkled, dark grey dress suit came up to him gave him a weak smile and asked him to follow her to Mr. Holmes' office. Watson followed her bouncing ponytail to an elevator and she pressed the button for the sixth floor.

While they were going up, John looked at the woman, trying on a bit deduction of his own. The state of the wrinkled expensive-looking suit suggested that she hadn't been planning to use it today. It was difficult to place her age, but he guessed that she was in her thirties. Her brown hair was held in place in a ponytail. A small, black skull was fastened to the hair elastic, suggesting a bit of a rebellious side. That is as a rebellious as one can look whilst working as an assistent at MI5, John guessed. He looked down at her feet, half expecting her to be wearing Converse, but instead, he saw a pair of black pumps with a low heel, suggesting that she walked a lot in her profession. A sensible choice, not trying to impress anyone, but not standing out, either. Maybe he had overanalyzed the ponytail. Under the grey jacket, she was wearing a white silk blouse with a discreet pattern which looked like crushed eggshells, with a hint of a metallic shine to them. Her make-up was quite subtle, except for a black line from the upper lash line, ending half an inch from her eye. Definitely a rebel.

The elevator came to a stop and they walked out of it and down a corridor. They stopped outside a door and the woman opened it. She stepped beside to let John pass and introduced him.

"Doctor Watson..."

Mycroft's voice was heard from inside the room.

"Thank you, Pond."

John passed her with and stepped into the room. Pond started walking of and John turned to her.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

He got a brief smile and a slight nod back, before she turned around and started walking back to the elevator, the heels of her shoes sinking slightly into the red carpet. Mycroft's voice was heard again:

"Close the door behind you."

John let the woman go with her eyes and stepped into the room and closed the door. He saw Mycroft, dressed in a tweet suit, and Sherlock, in his usual coat and purple scarf. He had even showered.

"I'm glad you cared to join us, John."

John couldn't tell if Mycroft was being ironic or sincere. He wasn't sure how much help he could be in this case, but he definitely was going to do his best. He could feel a familiar tingling sensation in his fingers and his temples. It was the feeling of being in the centre of trouble. It was the sensation of being ever so slightly in control, in a situation which was completely out of control, and he wanted to get as close as he could to the chaos, the violence, the excitement, the worst sides of the city, to be able to breathe faster, simply because he had to, and not having to think, simply because there was no time, on anything but what was causing the distraction he needed to be able to sleep. He had never felt so alive, so active, so well-functioning, as he did with the mad man with the intellect standing in front of him, and he was intensely happy to see him. Sherlock Holmes. The man who could make him excruciatingly mad, but also made his word spin faster and in new directions. His colleague and his best friend. And Sherlock needed him. He needed his connection to the outside world and he needed his professional skills, as well as his ability to explain the minds of normal people. He also needed his companionship and his friendship. John wondered sometimes how Sherlock's life had been before they met and if he ever got lonely, or, if he had gotten lonely before he met his friend, who perhaps had helped him grasp the feelings of loneliness and of companionship. Sherlock looked up and smiled at him. Perhaps Sherlock Holmes hadn't known what loneliness was, but now he definitely did.

"Mycroft has just been filling me in on the situation. Fascinating! And we met Moriarty. He's almost enjoying himself more than I am."

John couldn't help himself. He met Sherlock's smile. Mycroft looked as if he wasn't approving of this.

"Could you at least stop smiling as if you've just woken up at Christmas morning, boys. It's hardly appropriate."

"Ah, just because you have to work overtime, doesn't mean that we cannot enjoy ourselves."

Sherlock rubbed his hands together, looking at his brother.

"When are we going to see the witness?"

"At any time. Perhaps we should fill in John first?"

"Yes, yes, but make it quick."

Sherlock walked back and forwards, holding his hands together in front of his chin.

Mycroft turned to John.

"Well, I guess you have seen the news..."

* * *

"The library closes in fifteen minutes."

It was just before five and Sam Winchester was gathering his notes on Loki in a worn-out, black, hardcover notebook which had belonged to their dad and which contained facts, observations and cases involving various supernatural beings, demons, in particular. He hadn't found much useful. He had spent a lot of the afternoon trying to separate myth from what he suspected could be traces of reality and, from the stories and facts about Asgard and Loki, filter things that could be useful. He had made some interestings observations regarding the royal family and Loki's place in it, which could explain his desires to rule on Earth. He put the notebook back in his bag and walked up to Dean, who had shut off the computer he was sitting by.

"Any luck?" Sam asked.

"This is one messed-up dude."

"Yeah, tell me about it."

Dean grabbed his jacket hanging on the chair and put it on.

"Any good theories?" he asked Sam.

"Some. Let's get good something to eat and we'll go through it."

"Alright."

They started walking towards the entrance.

"Any connections to Crowley?" Sam asked.

"Not any I could find."

"Yeah, me neither. But I have got a lot of notes on Loki."

"Do you think the part about the horse is true?"

"Dean..."

"What?" Dean smiled, making Sam chuckle. Dean looked at his brother and he felt a warmth spreading inside when seeing his brother enjoying himself and smiling, showing happiness, at least for a short while. Those moments seemed to come more and more rarely and he took the greatest pleasure in seeming them.

One of Dean's most valued responsibilities was to protect his brother, to keep him sheltered from the grimest parts of reality, to save him from death, violence and hell, if he could, and to only have to watch him face demons when he could put a silver bullet through them or, preferably, exorcise the captivated bodies they possessed. Those moments also seemed to be increasingly rare occurances in their lives and Dean would often, probably with a nostalgic veil over his eyes, think back to the days when they were simply killing supernatural beings, travelling between small towns, staying at cheap motels, eating junk food, inventing new fake identities, listening to 80s rock music and even, at some rare moments, sit on the hood of the Impala under starry skies, sharing a six-pack of beer, talking about their mum and dad.

Sam couldn't remember their mum and Dean would tell him about his memories of her. They would also wonder at their different memories of their childhoods, spent in different towns, in small apartments or motel rooms, often alone whilst their dad was out on a hunt, with new schools, new kids, half-completed homework, nightmares, cigarettes bought on the sly, Dean cooking mac and cheese for his younger brother which they would eat in front of the TV, sharing a big bottle of Coke. They would often come back to their Christmases. Both of them most clearly remembered the holidays that the two brothers spent alone, especially the one when Sam decorated their motel room with an improvised Christmas tree and Dean gave him Christmas presents stolen from a neighbour house, which turned out to be a Barbie doll and a sparkly baton, and Sam gave Dean a necklace in the form of an amulett. The gift had been intended for their dad, but Sam had decided to give it to Dean instead and it had hung around Dean's neck ever since.

"No, Dean, I don't think that the part with the horse is true."

"Yeah, you're probably right", Dean smiled. They laughed together as they past the information desk.

"What do you feel like eating?" Sam asked.

"British?"

"Yeah, sure. Why not? Let's find a pub."

"Have some beers, look through the notes on the newest god who wants to rule the world", Dean suggested as he opened the door, stepping out from the library, Sam following him.

"What do you think normal people do on a Saturday night?" Sam asked. It was a game that they picked up on a regular basis.

"Watch TV?", Dean suggested.

"Walk the dog?"

"Play with the kids?"

"Go to the gym?"

"Make cosplay?"

"What?" Sam looked as his brother, slightly amazed that he could still surprise him after all of the time they had spent together.

"Have you seen these chicks and their glorious art works? A lot of talent, time and love for something that covers so little skin to be able to represent the most exquisite, most powerful and most impressive women in history."

Sam snorted, but he was still smiling.

"Nerd..."

"Geek..."

* * *

The sketch artist left Reynolds' office after what seemed as an hour, bur probably had been less. It had been impossible to tell. Detail after detailed had been added to the drawing. A grey man with short hair, almond shaped, blue eyes, some freckles accompanying a tall, slender body started appearing on the paper, one stroke after the other, as the artist with his pen transformed a blank page into one representing the image of Mr Pellegrino, Ned's teacher from all those years ago. It had been easy to conquer the image of the man in his mind and he closed his eyes as he with his words added detail after detail. When he examined the results, he was fascinated by how much the sketch reminded him of Pellegrino and he nodded to the artist, who took his leave. The door never closed behind him before it was opened wide again and several people walked into Reynolds' office. A couple of them looked familiar, but Ned couldn't place them. The third one was Holmes, from the previous night.

"Reynolds."

"Holmes."

"Mr Warren, Reynolds, this is Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson."

Sherlock grabbed a chair standing by the wall, placed it on the floor next to Ned and sat down on it, leaning towards Ned.

"Why did you help Loki? What are you getting out of it?"

"What...

"Or are you to scared to tell us Loki's plan? Who else is involved? Who? What do you know?"

"I don't..."

"Admit it! Your incompetence lead up to the bombing of central London!"

"I told them everything! Loki made me drive him to Regent's Park to meet the man who showed up in the car in the middle of the freakin' highway and then disappeared into thin air! That's all I know!"

"Thank you."

Sherlock got up from his chair and walked up to the door, where Mycroft was standing.

"Nice handled, brother..."

"He talked fast. That was what I was going for. If you need me, I'll be on Baker Street. I need to go to my mindpalace."

Sherlock left the room. Watson turned to Ned.

"Excuse him, he likes to do things... quickly. Thanks for telling us what you know."

He followed Sherlock out from the office. Ned turned to Reynolds:

"Who was that?"

"Sherlock Holmes, the detective."

"Is he working on the case?"

"We are using every available resource. Mr Warren, just one more question and then we'll be ready."

Ned sighed, rubbing the temples of his forehead.

"Alright..."

"Did you see which road Loki took into the park?"

"No... I just drew off as quickly as I could. I only know he was going to the park because he asked me to drive him there."

"I understand."

"There was one thing... I don't know if it's important."

"Everything is important."

"I might be wrong, but when Loki read the note he got from the other man, where I assume that he got Regent's Park from, Loki... chuckled, as if he was finding it amusing, of some reason. It's probably nothing, but..."

"Duly noted. Before we finish, I want to make sure that you are aware of the fact that everything you informed us about or heard about this case is strictly classified, under law."

"Off course."

"That includes everyone, Ned. You cannot discuss any of these events with anyone."

"I understand", Ned pointed out, with emphasis. Reynolds nodded, satisfied with the reponse.

"We are finished for now. You'll be escorted home and a couple of police officers will stay on guard outside of your house, just to be safe. We don't expect anything to happen to you. Our judgement is that you are not a threat for Loki, but we will not take any risks."

Ned wondered if the guards would be there to make sure that he wouldn't disappear at much as for protecting him, but he knew that Reynolds never would admit that, so he simply nodded. It gave him a feeling of security to know that there would be guards outside his house. Maybe it would help him sleep.

"Don't leave the city for the next couple of days."

Or maybe not. Reynolds pressed a button on a display on the desk.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Ned."

Reynolds stood up and held out his hand. Ned stood up as well and shook the other man's hand. The door was opened behind them.

"Sir?"

"Please escort Mr Warren home."

"Sir."

Reynolds picked up a business card lying on his desk and handed it to Ned.

"If there would be any... trouble, of any kind, or if you have any questions..." Ned looked down at the card.

_Malcolm Reynolds_

_Special Agent_

_Counter-terrorism_

_MI5_

Ned read the card over and over again. The words seemed as if they were taken from a movie. The stood out, as if they were written on his eyes. After a few seconds, Ned looked up at Reynolds, who was watchimg him calmly. He turned the card and saw two telephone numbers, an adress and an email adress.

"Any hour of the day..."

"Thank you", he responded, since that seemed like the appropriate thing to say. Ned turned around and followed the younger man standing in the door opening out from the room, through the corridor and into the waiting eevator. He was looking forwards to coming home. Open a beer, sit in front of the TV and hopefully fall asleep there in the couch. He wasn't sure if he had any beers at home and wondered if they would allow him to go out and buy any. Well, this was absurd. Off course they would. They had to. Ned followed the man into a large garage and up to a black car, similar to the one which had taken him there that morning. He got into the back seat and waited for the man to get into the driver's seat. He cleared his throat and mustered his confidence:

"Can we stop by a grocery store?"

"Yes, sir."

Deciding to make the best of the situation, he leaned back in the seat, closed his eyes and, for the first time since the previous night, Ned Warren smiled.


	17. Chapter 17

_The bright lure of freedom_

Darkness sank quickly over the city. It wasn't the comforting, warm darkness of a summer night, when the sunlight never actually seem to disappear, but linger in another shape in the warmth of the air, like an everpresent cover over the city, moody, spiritual and joyous. This darkness was rather the darkness of waking up in the middle of the night in a strange room, where you couldn't by heart locate the light button and where your fingers would feel their way over what felt as metres after metres of unfamiliar surfaces of walls that seemed to keep coming closer. Or rather the darkness of walking down a lonely country road, where the night was so complete you could touch it, and everything else seemed artifical, unreal, even as made up as the objects you kept imagining would hit your knees or your outstretched hand as you took step after step on a gravelled road, and the darkness surrounded you, blinded you, covered your ears with masked hands, just as it consumed the essence of time and the pure existence of light. This was the darkness that stretched over the city and it was ruthless, unbending, deaf and silencing.

Most Londoners were this night watching the cold, vacant light of televisions and computer screens, casting a cold, bleak light over their faces and reflecting images of fire, ruins, sirens and tears in their eyes. Others sat in silence or were wound up in heated discussions, disguising cries of anger, sadness and confusion, at various pubs and cafes. Another group acted as if they were intended on closing their eyes to the historical fire and act as if the world hadn't stopped turning, or at least stopped for a second on its route around the sun, to gaze upon the beginning of a new era, the rise of a phoenix from the ashes of the Palace of Westminister, spreading out its dark green wings, covering the sun as its reflection shone in the water of the Thames, urging, tempting the citizens to fall in love with and surrender to its violent greatness. They chose to act as if the world was no different this evening than it had been that morning, as if autumn hadn't fallen over London, and as if the summer sun still warmed them, as they defied the cold in thin jackets and tuxedos, armless gowns and cocktail dresses, hurrying from cars being driven up to the entrance of the British Museum, gladly handing their car keys to a parking valet before walking up the stairs to the majestetic building to take part in the opening of the new exhibition of artefacts of Viking culture, found on the British isles.

The conversations taken place in the smaller groups which kept being formed and re-formed on the marmor floor of the lobby, mostly circled around the morning's attack. Adjectives such as 'terrible', 'surprising', 'horrble', 'fanatic', 'chocking', 'absurd' and 'dreadful' were echoing off the floors and the pelars of the hall, being repeated, multiplied and strenghtened, creating a tense vibration in the air, sending chills down naked arms and exposing nerves, which were being pinched with small pliers of threatening words which needed to be spoken.

There were also the few who refused to let the enjoyment of the evening be threatened by something of such grand porportions that it had the potential of swallowing their whole perspective of the world and just leave a layer of dust in the air, preventing them from breathing. And so they wandered around the room, as butterflies flying between flowers, restlessly flapping their wings as they gasped for air, remarking on outfits, common aquintances and other trivialities, and they would probably continue to do so, even if the world would fall and burn around them.

One group of people gathered close to the stairways, drawn towards each other from the magnetic radiation of their excitement and a dammed need of vocalising the for others ungraspable, perhaps even unspeakable, thrill of seeing a Norse god on a TV screen, living, breathing and talking. The scientists and professors, who had been invited to the opening due to their work with archeology and ancient British history, jumped between several simultaneous discussion on the importance of this for modern day England, how history needed to be rewritten, which aspects of Norse mythology could be plausible, which myths which were of importance regarding the situation at hand with Loki and who among them who had been contacted by MI5.

Charlotte was wandering between the small gatherings of people, listening in on conversations and taking part in a few, mostly to greet aquaintances she had contact with in her work. She had put on a subtle, dark blue dress with lace details, and convered her arms under a thick, short, black jacket. She let her mind rest and let her senses sweep the room, resting on a bed of the softness of the sounds and the sights, coming from obscure voices, dim lights, faint music, shining and reflective surfaces, soft touches and slow steps.

After some time, and after some surprisingly short speeches, the exhibition was opened and the guests gathered around the artefacts of the exhibition, more or less enthusiastically. They played their parts, even though the world had gone mad, and tried to act as though myth and history hadn't come to life.

The visitors gazed upon sherds of swords, piceced together to resemble their former shapes, spearheads, decorated pottery, jewellry made of amber, bronze and steel, along with scenes with real-size Vikings and Angle-Saxons, who traded, fought or hunted.

Some pieces attracted more attention than others. Quite many people gathered around the glass containers with decorated weapons and jewellery, delicately put together by patient hands. One of the museum's curators was leading a group between chosen pieces, telling their stories. Charlotte was walking just behind the group, listening with one ear to the guide.

"Now, we come up to piece 665. This is an iron spearhead with silver and copper decorations..."

Charlotte walked pass the group and up to a piece being displayed in a glass monter by one of the walls. The Kells Crozier was one of the main attractions of the exhibition. It was a religious relic from ninth century Ireland. It was more than one metre long. The end of the sceptre was bent. It looked almost like the head of a horse, with an equisitely decorated mane and a staff decorated with panels of varying size in four places. Charlotte heard the curator's voice behind her.

"This piece was found in the back room at a solicitor's office. It was lying in a wodden box, underneath a chandelier in pieces. It is a relic from a saint in the early church of Ireland. It has been used as a symbol of office for a high leader in the Irish Catholic Church. The core is made of yew wood and the staff is decorated with cast knops and cross-shaped strips. The knops are divided into panels filled with animal interlace. The curved crook has an outer casing of silver and a crest of linked birds. It could very well have served a purpose which pre-dates Christianity in Ireland, but that's a personal theory."

The man chuckled before he continued.

"What it was used for, I don't have an idea about, yet. Now, to your left, you can see a beautiful brooch..."

The people around her moved on to other pieces, but Charlotte stayed by the crozier, fascinated by its detailed ornaments, reading the facts known about the piece once more on a sign beneath the monter.

"So that's where it is... No, they got it all wrong."

She heard the voice from just behind her and tilted her head slightly to address the speaker. Despite of the warmth of the room, she shivered under her jacket.

"Why is that?"

"It was not a symbol of the Christian church. Not at first, at least."

"How do you know?"

"At least, that was not what I used it for..."

The glass wall suddenly shaddered and an alarm went off; its loud sound echoing off the walls. The shattered pieces of glass fell down on the floor and onto the crozier. An arm reached into the cabinet and slender fingers folded around the handle of the staff. A leather boot stepped in the broken glass, making it crackle and break under its weight, and a familiar face was made visible next to Charlotte.

"Just wait and see..."

Charlotte's eyes opened wide as they met the familiar pair of grey eyes belonging to Loki. The sharp light from the cabinet was reflected in them, giving the impression that the light was coming from within them. Charlotte gasped, clasped a hand over her mouth and instinctively stepped away from the man with the dark hair, the pale skin, the light smile and the calculating eyes, which reflected the map of possibile conclusions which were being drawn up in his mind. He frowned.

"Do you remember me?"

Charlotte pulled all her remaining strength into a shining ball of energy and used it to lift her eyebrows, wrinkle the muscles around her eyes and tilt her head, to give a convisingly confused impression, hoping that she could fool the god of mischief, illdeeds and double-play, famous for his skillfull silver tongue of lies.

Loki met her gaze for a few seconds, studying her carefully, before his fingers grasped tighter around the staff and he lifted it out of the cabinet, turning away from Charlotte. In that moment, when his eyes left hers, it was as if a spell lifted from her mind and the world around her returned in full colour and sounds came crashing into her ears, all at the same time.

The alarm, people screaming, the glass breaking under Loki's boots as he stepped away from the cabinet, heels and shoes running over the floor, calls for security and urges to call the police. Loki stood with the crozier in his hand, dressed in a black suit with a long jacket and a green, patterned scarf, his black hair commed back, gazing over the panicked crowd, looking as if he were greatly enjoying himself. He held his chin high and there was a contended, almost mad, Joker-smile on his face.

"Please... Put the crozier down."

The guide was standing to the left of Charlotte. People were hurrying past him, bumping into him, but he remained standing a few metres from Loki. The Asgardian looked down at the staff, studying it, and then lifted it and grabbed the crooked handler and straightened it. The material crackled under the pressure, but didn't break. The curator gasped and claped a hand over his mouth, holding out a hand as if he was urging Loki to stop, but did not dare to interfere. Loki held up the now straight sceptre and pushed down on some of the markings on the edge of the handle. The end of the sceptre lit up in blue and an almost electrical sound was heard, as from a defibrilator being charged. Loki lifted the sceptre and pushed it forwards. A blue light shoot out from the end and hit the opposite wall with a loud bang. The wall crackled and a few shadders of concrete fell down on the ground. The curator looked at the wall and then back at the sceptre, still glowing in blue. He had a look of utter surprise on his face.

"So that's what it does..."

Loki looked down at the sceptre, still smiling, and then at the curator, who now chose to follow the lead of the visitors and leave the room, looking back several times as he was being pulled along by a man in a tuxedo and a woman in a yellow cocktail dress. Charlotte stood frozen to the ground, without a single thought of leaving, as people ran by around her, jerking her arm or trying to meet her eyes, screaming at her to move, but she never even considered it. Instead, she looked at Loki, mesmerized by the change which was taken place in front of her. Loki's appearance was changing and new clothing and a golden helmet was visualising themselves, as if they had been there all the time and someone now turned up the strength of their visibility, making them appear in front of the eyes of the screaming and running men and women passing them. Loki was now wearing a long leather jacket over leather pants and an armour of leather, green fabric, a golden chest plates and gauntlets, as well as a golden helmet with two large, bended horns. His clothing looked as an armour for royalty in a fantasy world. Standing the sceptre down on the ground in a vertical position next to him, he gazed over the crowd. His eyes met Charlotte's.

"Still here, pet?"

She frowned.

"Why aren't you running with the other humans?"

She couldn't tell if he were íntrigued or angry. She tried to liberate her tongue from its numb state, but no words came to mind.

"You remember me...

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He tilted his head slightly and looked down at her, a smile still resting comfortably in his eyes.

"Charlotte..."

He had a demanding, patronizing tone to his voice.

"Don't lie to me."

He started walking up to her and, once again, it was as if someone had swiched of the connection to the muscles in her legs. She couldn't move them. Loki approached her quickly and, suddenly, he was inches from her. His long fingers bended around her chin and lifted it, so that the taller man could look into her eyes.

"I'll deal with you soon."

The impressive stairs of the museum as well as the wide, open area in front of the building were crowded. Loki walked with quick steps up to the entrance and out through the open glass doors. He stopped on the landing and slammed the sceptre into the ground. A blue light shout out from the sceptre with a loud bang, making the crowds instinctively stop and turn around. The blue light shot out in a straight line down the outer edge of the group, before turning ninety degrees, continuing down the outer edge of the crowd, before finally turning again, successfully locking the group in behind visible lines of blue light and the Asgardian. Gasps and cries were heard from the group of people inside of the obstructions. Those standing closest to the light took a few steps back from it. No one dared to touch it. A few lucky individuals were on the other side. Some ran, others backed away and looked on with amazement and fright in their eyes or picked up their mobile phones to take picures, record the events or call the police. Behind Loki, Charlotte was approaching, quietly and slowly. She stopped in the door, gazing over the frightened, wary crowd of people moving closer together, grabbing each others' arms, meeting each others' eyes, while looking at the blue light and at the smiling Asgardian.

"People of London! I am your new ruler. Kneel before me and you will be rewarded."

The crowd stared back at him, hesitating. Loki stamped the scepter on the ground and screamed:

"I said KNEEL!"

The crowd jerked back and, one after the other, the people got down on their knees in front of the Asgardian.

"Is not this simpler? Is this not your natural state? It's the unspoken truth of humanity, that you crave subjugation. The bright lure of freedom diminishes your life's joy in a mad scramble for power, for identity. You were made to be ruled. In the end, you will always kneel."

"Why?"

Charlotte stood outside of the glass doors.

"Why should we kneel before you?"

Loki turned around and faced her.

"I am your god."

"You're not my god. And you're not their god."

She indicated the people on the ground with her head.

"Why do you think they kneel for you? It's not because it's their natural state. They are scared, not joyous. Look at them..."

Reflexively, Loki turned his head and looked at the crowd of people. They were still on their knees, their heads bowed, fear in their eyes, their bodies strained, their muscles tense, unyielding, as just before a leap, subjugated in form, but not in mind. Loki looked at Charlotte.

"They will learn what true power is..."

Sirens were heard in the distant.

"... and they will learn to obey..."

He walked up to Charlotte.

"... and to not deceive me."

Loki grabbed Charlotte by her arm.

"I need to know what you know, human."

Charlotte fought against him, but he hardly seemed to notice it. His grip on her arm was tight. She could feel the pressure from his fingers through her jacket. Loki turned to the crowd.

"Humans. You will know the satisfaction of subjugation. Obeying will liberate you from the hardships of your lives. You will know peace, when you decide to follow me."

The sound of the sirens grew louder. Loki took up the sceptre and started walking down the stairs, dragging Charlotte along after him by her arm. She had no choice but to step down the stairs, to not fall.

"Where are you taking me? I don't know anything!"

"Silence, human."

Charlotte was filled with anger. She kept fighting against Loki, and against a dark hole of fear, hiding just behind her heart, threatening to consume her. Loki's grip around her arm was unyielding. His fingers didn't move an inch.

"I have nothing to do with this!"

Loki chuckled.

"We'll see, pet..."

He dragged her to a pick-up truck standing close to the museum building. The headlights of the car came on as they approached it, blinding Charlotte. Loki's hand was dragging her arm upwards, forcing her to step up on the open back of the truck. He pulled her down on the floor of the truck and crouched down next to her, holding on to the rails. The car started moving and drow off into the darkness. The blue light surrounding the crowd died out, as Loki lifted the sceptre and held it up in the air, pushing down on a couple of the panels. The people started moving, first slowly, carefully getting up on their feet, and then they were running. Some stayed on the ground, being lifted by those around them. The sound of the sirens lessened in strength as the truck drove away from the scene at a high speed.

Charlotte was shaken again and again as the truck drove over bumps and small holes in the ground. She held on to the rails as the truck passed through curves and made turns without slowing down. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, trying and failing to lock out the outside world, as the truck took another turn, sending her to the right, her hand instinctively closing tighter around the cold steel.

When she looked up, her head was turned against the sky. The stars were still, but everchanging, as she moved by underneath them. The air was cold, but not unpleasantly so. The burning stars were reflected in her eyes. Her heart beat in a steady, fast pace, warming her blood. The rails were cold and her skin was chilled by the surrounding air, moving past them in a high speed, swooshing in her ears. She gazed at the burning, white stars and the wind was silenced. Her heart beat out its steady rhytm, her hand clinged to the rails and the everlasting stars were fixed in front of her eyes. Her body and her mind found a place to stay, to exist, and as the world around her fell, it fell into order. Her eyes turned a darker shade of grey as her mind fixated itself on its single purpose and the chaos around it faded. The stars reflected in her eyes never even blinked and the grip of her hand was tight. She put up one of her flat, black sandals and placed it on the floor of the truck. The blue dress was moved by her movements and by the wind, sending chills from the wind down her skin. Her eyes were turned against the sky. As she closed them, as a bag was put over her head, the reflections of the stars could still shone in her eyes.

It was impossible to tell for how long they sat on the pick-up truck, but it felt like less than twenty minutes later, she was lifted from the truck by her arm. She lost her right shoe as she struggled to find where to place her feet. She was led down from the truck and managed somehow to avoid tripping. She put down her left foot on the ground first. It felt soft. With her right food, she felt cold, damp grass. Her senses were highly activated and she took in different sensations; the touch of grass under her foot, the silence of her surroundings and the fleeting smell of leather and sweet. She heard Loki's voice in her ear.

"Recognize yourself?"

As he lifted the bag from her head, he grabbed her neck wih his right hand.

"Lie not to me again, human. I am losing patience with you."

Charlotte looked around. She was standing in the gathering of trees where she had overheard Loki and Crowley. 'Damn it. Fuck.' She tasted iron and realized she must have bitten her lip. Driven by shear survival instinct, she decided that her best defence was to turn Loki's attention towards someone else.

"Your mate messed up."

"What happened?"

"I woke up this morning, believing everything that happened last night was a dream Then I found this..."

She reached into the pocket of her jacket and picked up the business card, holding it up so that Loki could see it. He chuckled.

"That matters not."

He pushed Charlotte from him gently by her neck. She stumbled in front of him, but didn't fall.

"You have done well and under my regime, those actions are rewarded."

He stepped up to her, lifting a strand of her hair which covered her eye. He spoke, more to himself than to her...

"I have always wondered what my brother sees in you insignificant creatures..."

Charlotte could feel a tremble pass through her body. Loki felt it too and his hand let go of her hair. His eyes met her. She saw determination.

"I require knowledge, your knowledge."

She stepped back.

"Why do you need me?"

"You have knowledge of the humans, their habits, their desires, their... fears."

"What is wrong with the other one?"

"Enough! You are, all of you are beneath me! I am a god, you dull creature, and I will not be questioned by..."

The faint sound of a helicopter suddenly drew closer and Loki turned around to see it drawing closer to them. Beneath the helicopter, several police cars came driving at a high speed on the other side of the lake. A voice magnified by speakers was heard from the helicopter:

"Loki! We have surrounded the park. Put down the spear and let the girl go! She has nothing to do with this!"

Loki leaned towards Charlotte and said quietly:

"Now, that is not completely accurate, is it?"

Charlotte remained quiet, waiting for his next move with dread, but also, she had to admit to herself... anticipation. She tried to shake of the feeling, but the Asgardian stood too close to her, feeding her excitement with his own ferocious energy, pulsating through his body.

"This doesn't have to go longer than this!"

Loki laughed softly. His eyes were burning, but a shadow in the form of a wind of memories passed over them, dampering but also giving new life to the fire, as he spoke:

"Oh, but it does..."

"Let the girl go!"

Loki moved behind her, leaning in closer to her other ear:

"I do not believe she wants me to."

Slender fingers closed around her arm and suddenly, she was pulled along towards the edge of the park, were the helicopter was hovering over the long line of police cars and armed police officers, pointing their guns in their direction. Charlotte couldn't hear anything but her own breaths. The lights from the helicopter and the cars hit her eyes and she lost her other shoe. The grass was cold, damp but soft under the soles of her feet.

"Loki! Do not take another step! Put down the sceptre and release the girl or we will be forced to use armed force!"

Charlotte stopped and Loki stopped next to her. Charlotte's eyes gazed over the lights, the faces resting in shadow and the weapons.

"Do you think they would shoot? What about...?"

"... you? I do not believe that you matter that much to them, pet."

Charlotte stared at the raised guns in front of her and, suddenly, she couldn't decide where to run.

"This is your final warning! Put down the sceptre or we will fire!"

Charlotte stepped back, but Loki's hand still held her arm in a tight grip. The end of the sceptre shone in blue.

"Put down the spear or we will fire!"

Charlotte took another step back, extending her right arm which was still tightly held in Loki's grip.

"Loki!" she shouted at him. She found that she was more afraid of the weapons in front of her than the sheer force of violent power next to her, with his fingers still in a tight grip around her arm.

"Loki!"

She kept trying to step back, pulling her arm, trying to make him loosen his grip. His fingers didn't move. Suddenly, Loki pushed Charlotte behind him as he raised his sceptre. It gave of the same electrical sound that she had heard before. He pushed the sceptre forwards with a violent thrust, using his whole body for strength, and a blue light shot out from the end of the sceptre, hitting one of the police cars one the other side of the lake with a loud bang. The car jumped up into the air and flew over the people behind it, landing upside down, behind the police officers who had used it as a barrier. The car gave of the sound of crumbling metal and breaking glass, followed by the shrieking sound of metal being dragged over asphalt as the car on its roof glided several metres over the street before it came to a stop. Another pulse shot out from the sceptre, hitting a second car to the left, sending it flying into the air. It landed next to the other one, pushing it with it for a couple more metres, accompanied by the soundof metal and glass being broken and smashed together.

The sound of gunshots echoed to the left of Charlotte, followed by the sound of splintering wood, causing a high pitched ringing in her ears, making her cover her ears, as Loki's arm was folded around her back as he turned around, pushing her in front of him, deeper into the park, under the shadow of the trees. Charlotte turned around to see where she was going as more gunshots were heard to her right and she ran on the grass, under the trees, Loki's breath on her neck.

It all took less than ten seconds. Loki turned around again, holding her behind him with one hand, pointing the sceptre upwards with the other and, with another violent thrust echoing through his entire body, he pushed the sceptre forwards once more, sending out a pulse which hit the helicopter, and, as Charlotte turned around and looked on, astonished and petrified, the helicopter started spinning in the air, closer and closer to the ground, before landing where, a few seconds earlier, police officers had been standing. The crash was violent. The propeller dug itself into the soft ground before it finally stopped spinning and the helicopter slide over the ground, forcing the police officers to run to possibly escape it.

An arm found its way under Charlotte's right arm, around her waist, and she was pulled along, walking backwards, her eyes on the helicopter which started burning, the pilot and passengers struggling to escape the flaming wreck.

Loki pulled her along, pass the trees and out onto a gravelled opening, where the pick-up truck was waiting. A man was sitting in the driver's seat, his hands on the wheel and his eyes on Loki and Charlotte. He started the car. Loki walked up to the back of the truck. He lifted Charlotte by her waist and threw her down on the truck. As she climbed up into a sitting position, Loki's boot stepped down beside her.

As the pick up truck drove down the road, Loki started laughing. His grey eyes shone. Charlotte tried to force her body to stay alert, to focus on finding and grasping an opportunity to jump of the car. Her heart beat out an even, fast rhytm as the truck speed down the streets of central London at a high speed, continuously passing other cars with narrow margins. Behind them, a few cars away, several police cars could be seen. Loki stood up, his back and knees bent so that he could grip the rails with his left hand, and pointed the sceptre in the direction of the police car. The first thrust of the sceptre send a red Golf driving behind them flying over the road. The second one narrowly missed the first police car, which changed lanes to avoid the pulse from the sceptre. Loki let out a sound of dissatisfaction and lifted his sceptre, getting ready to fire it again. They reached the intersection of Prince Albert Road and the police cars turned right, onto Princess Road, leaving the truck. Loki smiled and sunk down on the floor again, looking at Charlotte, who had witnessed the whole incident, her eyes open wide.

"Human... Are you all right?"

"It's Charlotte."

Loki smiled at her.

"You have a strong heart. I could find use for that."

As the car turned left onto St Mark's Crescent, Loki suddenly put the bag over her head again. Charlotte tried to count the turns the car made, but after a while, she lost track on where they were.


	18. Chapter 18

_When the night is spread out against the sky_

The hours grew longer for each one which passed this quiet Autumn night, being dragged out by the collective sleeplessness of the citizens of the city, turning in their beds and staring at digital clocks which ticked on, slower and slower for each passing hour, as the night started to feel as the first night after a loved one died, when there is no end, no mercy, not even in the passing of time to start healing open wounds, and this night, the hours grew longer and longer, and the open wound of the Palace of Westminister could not start to heal. The city suffered under a defeaning cloth, suffocating the unheard scream of a silenced voice, as it bled.

In his cell, Jim Moriarty lifted his head from the thin madrass on the steel bed and sniffed in the air, catching the faint smell of ashes. He grabbed the air above him and rubbed his fingers together, watching them turn grey. The city was burning along with his heart and, finally, he could rest, at least for this night.

There was no sleep this night for Sherlock Holmes, either, but for a different, or, perhaps, quite similar reason. He had been playing his violin for a while, standing in front of the mirror facing the yard, but after John had expressed a need to sleep, he had given it up, and now he was sitting in his chair in the living room, holding his hands together in front of him, with his eyes closed. He looked up and his pupills were quickly moving from side to side, scanning invisible words in front of his eyes, taken from every possible, well-sorted section of his memory. His mind was seeing connections, drawing lines between words, mentally mapping his knowledge of Loki and of Moriarty, filling in blanks, using only his memory and his intellect, identifying the remaining question marks, dark spots on the map, shadows waiting to be captured by light. Sherlock Holmes' psyche thrived when met with a puzzle, with question marks, shadows and clues. He could also smell the ash in the air, feel it brush lightly against his cheek bones. Sitting in his chair in the darkness, Sherlock was smiling.

In a dimly lit warehouse, in a corner of the room, Charlotte's hand was fitted with a handcuff, being locked to the armrest of a simple couch. She was tired, but wound up. Standing above her, Loki let go of her wrist and she let it drop onto the armrest.

"Why are you tieing me up? I have nowhere to escape. I don't even know where I am."

"It is for your own good."

"What do you mean?"

"It is the only way you can relax."

Stepping away from her, Loki turned his back to her. His leather cape was moving behind him. Charlotte followed him with her eyes as he walked away, out of sight. As Loki disappeared from view, he took with him the lump in her throat, preventing her from taking deep breaths, and now she could breath again. The events of the last day filled all of her thoughts, craving, demanding her whole attention, dividing themselves into clearly marked categories of good and bad, right and wrong, and playing out themselves in her mind in black and white, as in an old movie. She watched them again and again and her body was reminded of the panic, the fear, the adrenalin which had kept it busy since yesterday evening, feasting out her energy, clouding everything else. Her fast-beating heart slowly calmed down, continuing its even rhytm. All things which had previously been her life were gone from sight, obscured, moved away from her conscious mind. Lying on the couch in the empty, cold warehouse, her body covered with a thin blanket, Charlotte let her head fall down onto the armrest, slowly letting her body take her down as she fell asleep, the tones of "Don't let it bring you down" being played in her mind.

Hidden underneath a layer of pillows and blankets, Ned Warren also fell asleep, completely exhausted after the lack of sleep from the previous night and the intense, traumatizing, events of the day.

* * *

The lamp in the stairways in the house at the end of the street was lit. Malcolm Reynolds climbed the stairs slowly, careful not to make too much noise, taking off his tie as he walked. When he reached the second floor, he turned off the lights in the stairs. A window facing the streets let some of the light from the last lamp on the street throw its light into the hallway, allowing Malcolm to see what he was doing. It was like watching a shadow move. Malcolm stayed in the hallway, removing his jacket, trousers and shirt, folding them quickly and leaving them in the red velvet armchair, standing in the hallway on the second floor.

He had hated the armchair at first, when she had come home with it, with the dark coffee stain on the left armrest, but he had kissed his wife on her temple as he had stood next to her in the small pool of sunshine on the oak floor in front of the new piece of furniture, breathing in her serene aura.

Now, his clothes covered the dark red fabric. The oak floor rested in darkness. Malcolm found his way in the darkness up to the bedroom door, even though he could hardly see his hand in front of him in the darkness as he pushed open the door that had been left ajar and stepped into the even darker room. A few strands of light found their way through the now open door, and the street lamp tossed them over the still, unmoving shape under the white cover.

Malcolm pushed the door close again, letting a single strand of light remain over his wife's unmoving shape, quietly stepping into the room. He walked up to his side of the bed, pulled the cover to the side, sat down on the cold bed, lay down in it and pulled the equally cold cover up to his chin, feeling a familiar chill pass down his spine and down his legs as he waited for his body heat to heat up the bed and the cover so that they in turn could warm his half naked body. He considered picking up a t-shirt, but his tired body protested against the idea of stepping up out of bed again.

Malcolm turned so that he rested on his left side and lookedat the line of articical light, passing down his wife's body. He traced it carefully with his finger, feeling the warmth from her body. She moved slightly in her sleep, reaching out a hand from under the cover. He turned his back to her, moving up the cover up higher to his chin and caught her fingers between his, laying her arm over his body, letting it rest on his side. In her sleep, her fingers squeezed his and he brought her hand up to his lips, feeling them stroke his cheek before giving them a quick kiss, tasting salt.

* * *

Dean Winchester woke from a nightmare. He sat up in his bed, hardly even hearing the sound of a car driving by at a high speed or the sound of a siren in a near distance. The interior of the simple hotel room swirled in front of him and he couldn't find a fixed point for his eyes to land on. He closed his eyes, covering his face with his hands, but quickly looked up again; the scenes from the nightmare were still continuing on the inside of his eyelids, underneath long lashes, where drops of sweat and tears were shivering, hardly holding onto their grip, like dew on grass on a cold, spring morning.

Dean looked down at his naked arms, touching the scars on his forearms, imagining old ones, from another version of his body, and quickly jerked away his hand, as his mind remembered a cut which had been there and sent an impulse of burning pain to his brain, as if someone had placed a scorching fire iron through his skin.

"Dean..."

"I'm okay." His voice sounded raspy, coarse, not as it usually did. A few seconds of silence passed.

"It was only a nightmare..."

"Did I wake you?" Dean asked.

"No... I was awake."

"Go back to sleep again, Sam. Big day tomorrow."

As he lay down in his bed again, Dean hoped that his brother had been lying about being awake this cold, empty night.

* * *

In a large office, Crowley was sitting by a dark walnut desk, watching the content of a short, wide glass swirl as he moved it in his hand. He watched the amber coloured liquid moving from side to side, forming small waves and throwing perfectly shaped drops up into the air, before they fell down into the liquid again. New drops would form, rising high, almost escaping over the transparent sides of the glass, before they would inevitably fall again.

Crowley was worried. He had heard about Loki's attack at the museum and now the unruly would-be-king was missing. Crowley needed Loki to rule, but he wasn't at all convinced that he could perceive or control the god's actions, desires or wishes. After dealing with humans on close hand for centuries, Crowley knew better than to believe that they would willingly step into the darkness of being controlled. Humans liked being able to forsee what would happen and they would die, or kill, for a sense of control. Having sold sin to humans as a crossroad demons before he took the place as king of hell when the vacancy suddenly opened up, he knew their darkest desires, the ones they would sell their souls for, well. And he knew that it was those that Loki would need to attract.

In a faint distance, screams could be heard through the walls. Crowley closed his eyes, sensing the screams rise and fall, without being caught by anyone on their way through the dungeons and the fire, as they slowly rise and died, scream after scream, night after night.

* * *

Small particles of glass crumbled under the soles of Mycroft Holmes' shoes, even though he tried to avoid stepping in the shaddered glass underneath the broken display which had contained the Kells Crozier. He had heard stories, testifies from witnesses, of what Loki had done with the sceptre which he wouldn't believe if he hadn't seen the video from the surveillance cameras himself.

Mycroft was tired and even his overachieving mind was starting to get overstimulated, overworked. It was time to give up for this evening and get a few hours sleep. He turned to the detective in charge of the police officers, scrutinizing the scene for every last detail of evidence.

"Rasmussen, I will leave the investigation in your hands with all of my faith and confidence."

He shook the other man's hand. Rasmussen, who was a tall, muscely build man, with a dark beard covering his chin and a couple of days (stubb), nodded to him.

"I appreciate the trust, Holmes. You can trust on total discresion from me and my men."

Wishing he could believe that, but knowing, as Rasmussen also did, that details of the attack would be displayed in the newspapers the next day and that a few police officers' bank accounts would display deposits in the form of high sums of money,

Mycroft thanked Rasmussen before leaving him in the well lit mseum building and stepping out onto the grand stairs underneath a dark sky, where the cold air hit him in the form of a light breeze, chasing a lonely leaf over the stairs. The orange leaf was jumping from step to step, hitting the concrete with one wing at the time, being chased forwards by the wind, trembling from fear and tripping over every other step. When it got to the edge of the stairs, the wind got hold of it and the leaf sored up into the air, its wings carried by the wind, and it was soon out of sight.

* * *

One single light was still lit in one of the windows of the apartment building on Orange Hill Road, in Burnt Oak, Edgware in the northwest of London. The light was coming from a lamp in the form of a tree with small lights on the edge of the branches, standing on the window bench. As a rule, the lamp was always lit when Elizabeth Pond was home.

This night, she was sitting by the table in the livingroom, accompanied by a grey, spreakly cat who was sleeping on the sofa out of patting distance, to ensure that she was left alone, occassionally opening one of her green-yellow eyes to gaze at the woman sharing the sofa with her.

The apartment had one bedroom with a double bed almost touching both of the opposite walls, a tiny kitchen where two people couldn't pass each other without stroking against one another and a livingroom which just barely fitted a small but high, white bookshelf, a square, black living room table, a TV bench and a grey, comfortable couch for three people, with a color that matched the grey hairs of the cat and a white plaid, which the cat was lying on, which matched the white hairs from the cat's stomach.

Liz Pond was sitting in the couch with her legs folded under her and a laptop in her lap. On the screen, a picture from a surveillance camera could be seen, showing Loki, dressed in a black suit, walking up to the Crozier. Liz zoomed in the picture, but due to the angle of the camera, she couldn't make out his face. In front of Loki, the young woman who had been identified as Charlotte Wilde was standing. A few seconds pass and Liz guessed that Loki was saying something to Wilde. Suddenly, the glass wall shaddered into millions of pieces. Liz rewinded the recording and played it in slow motion, but she still couldn't see what had caused the glass to break. The only thing she saw was Loki lifting his hand, slightly twisting his fingers. She let the recording continue to be played up in normal speed as Loki reached for the Crozier, saying something to Wilde once more, who stepped back from the man before he turned away from her, as people ran past by them, grabbing Wilde, who wouldn't move. Liz zoomed in on the woman's face, but didn't see the look of paralyzed fear she had expected, but rather... disbelief and fascination.

Loki lifted the sceptre, which was about a metre long, and straightened it and Liz turned his attention to him, zooming in on the man as he pushed down on some selected places on the handle which caused the sceptre to in places light up in blue. Loki pushed it forwards and a blue light shot out from the sceptre, causing a wall to crumble in front of him. Then, something truly extraordinary happened. Loki's clothing changed from the dark suit to a royal, ceremonial costume. Excited scientists from different fields were now working around the clock on trying to explain how that could be done. The winning theory was that the clothing was an illusion, a hologram.

On the video screen, Loki walked up to Wilde as the two seemed to be talking. Then, he left her and Liz switched to another camera to watch him walk through the museum building, behind the running crowd, and out onto the grand entrance. He walked down the stairs leading up to the British Museum, the sceptre in his hand. Liz watched as Loki slammed the sceptre into the ground, locking in the group of people beneath him behind three lines of blue light.

Behind him, Wilde was moving in the doorway. Liz zoomed in on the woman, but couldn't get a clear visual of her face. Soon thereafter, Wilde stepped forwards and Loki walked up to her, grabbing her by her arm and pulling her after him, as he walked down the stairs. Liz paused the recording and opened a second one on her computer, covering an area close to the entrance of the museum. She saw the woman being dragged up onto the back of a waiting pick-up truck which shortly thereafter disappeared from the sight. Clicking between other, well edited surveillance recordings, Liz watched the Asgardian using his new found weapon against pursuing police cars and a police helicopter before finally disappearing out of sight onto streets which lacked cameras.

There was however a quite big part of the journey that they had been able to track missing; the visit to Regent's Park. Liz knew that was the place where Loki had taken Wilde and where the police had found him, after having used intelligence gathered from witnesses and cameras. But there was a gap, a lack of information, regarding what had taken place in the park and the reason why he had chosen that quite public place, located not to far from the British Museum, to make a stop.

Deciding that she would look further into that puzzle in the morning, Liz closed her computer and put it on the small coffee table. She stretched out in the sofa, extending her long legs so that her feet ended up a foot away from where the cat was lying, now watching her intensely. Liz picked up a second, white blanket, from the armrest, and put it over her. She grabbed a pillow resting on the armrest and lay it under her head, closing her eyes and pulling the blanket up to her chin. She was starting to fall asleep within a few minutes. A grey burr of fur and a warm paw turned up next to her as the cat trampled around for a bit before coming to a rest close to her chest. Half asleep, Liz extended a hand and put it on the cat's back, feeling it purring as they both passed into darkness.

In her dreams, Liz looked into a pair of dark brown eyes and she found herself leaning over the stone walls of an old well and she fell over the edge and kept falling, trying and failing to grab the stones on the walls with her fingers. She couldn't remember landing in the infinite darkness of water lying in shadow, but instead, the dream changed and she was walking down a familiar corridor in the Thames House, dressed in an impossibly high pair of shoes. The heels of the shoes kept digging themselves into the dark red carpet which covered the floor and it became increasingly difficult to walk. The corridor became longer and longer and the carpet became deeper and deeper for every step she took.

The dream changed again, and as she tossed and turned in her sleep, she fell again deeper into the world of her dreams, and she found herself crouching down by a closed door, a kitchen knife in her hand. There was a man crouched down next to her, speaking to her in a quiet voice:

"Alright. Your turn to learn how to do this. You'll do fine."

Liz nodded, gripping the knife firmer.

The man reached up and pushed down the door handle, slowly pushing the door open about halfway.

On the other side of the door was a restaurant kitchen. Several bodies were spread out over the floor, their arms and legs twisted and stretched out over the flat surface. Directly inside of the door, the body of a lifeless man was lying. His skin was light grey and his eyes were closed. His right arm had stopped in the middle of a movement, reaching out towards the door, the fingers frozen in an attempt to grasp something in front of them.

Liz stared at the body, her heart beating. Knowing she had to be quick before the now lifeless body would wake up again from its temporary unconsciousness, Liz lifted the head of the body by the hair with her left hand and put the knife against the neck, quickly cutting through the skin and the flesh. She knew that it wouldn't be like cutting through a human being, but she was still surprised over how easy it was to saw through the man's neck, separating the head from the body. There was hardly any blood. She was ready within a few seconds. She left the body and the head on the floor and the man next to her gave her an encouraging look as Liz closed the door before they joined the rest of the group of survivors. Then, the dream changed.

The members of the group had found an empty house. They were taking a long sought break, sitting in their dirty, worn out clothes around a set dining table under a big chandelier, surrounded by dark green, patterned walls. It was a comforting feeling to be surrounded by this evidence of civilization, decency, consumption, luxury and familiarity. Another group wanted to get in to the house, to join them, share in their comfort and their food, but they were hesitant, ungenerous, afraid. As Liz sat there on the tall chair, in front of the dining room table, the dream changed again.

She had lost the group and she was walking through a nightmarish, industrial landscape, of tall steel structures in moldy green, dirty grey, deepest black and fiery read and orange. She was high up in the air, on a flat platform under an impossibly high ceiling. Underneath her, beneath the edge of the platform, were flat, steel surfaces, lying in shadow, sending echoes of distant sounds from undead, walking creatures up to Liz. She was caught on the platform to which there was only one entrance and she felt exposed. Feeling forced to move on, hurried on by distant sounds from the entrance through which she had reached the grand hall, she decided to start walking down a thin ledge, reaching around several massive, concrete, cylinder-shape structures, leading away from the open platform.

She could hardly place her feet on the small ledge. She had to place one foot in front of the other, since the ledge was to thin to carry both of her feet. The ledge varied in width and, in places, it was too small to hold the width of her foot, but she had to keep moving, listening for sounds from either side of the ledge as she slowly walked on. She clinged to the flat surface of the cylinders with open hands, and, as she walked, she began, with increasing intensity, contemplating the madness of the task that she had started. For every step, the decision made less and less sense. She was exposed on a thin ledge which she couldn't run on and if she would be found, it would be easy for the undead walkers to catch up to her. She stopped on the ledge, the palm of her hands flat on the cold concrete, and stared down into the dark abyss underneath her. The shadows deep underneath her moved, creating the illusion of slowly moving water. Liz stared at the shadows, but it was impossible to make out any solid figures. Everything looked fluent and dark, like smoke or, Liz thought to herself, like moving water in a deep well.

She was walking out of a subway tunnel and as the sunlight hit her face, it felt surprisingly warm, after all the time spent inside, in the darkness. She walked down a quiet street, joined by her fellow group members. They turned a corner, leading on to a cobblestone street, lined with restaurants and cafés, and were met by a most surprising sight. The open air cafés on the streets were crowded and the group was suddenly surrounded by people, walking, laughing, shopping, spending an afternoon in late spring, completely unaware of the darkness and the monsters underneath them, moving in the dark water of the well, which had been built by the same cobblestones that they were standing on.

With a sudden shake, passing down her body, Liz woke up. Next to her, the grey cat got scared by her sudden movement and jumped down from the sofa and quickly disappeared out of sight.

* * *

A dark shadow passed through the night in the form of a breeze shaped as long, slender fingers, caressing the walls and lightly rassling the windows of the buildings of central London. The darkness continued to linger as every hour was stretched out against the increasingly thinner, distant sky, which moved away from the city, the stars becoming smaller and smaller, as the sky widened and increased its distance from the ground, leaving more room to breathe, as the air lost substance and became emptier, lighter and weaker, and the distance between two outstretched hands became longer and longer.

Dean Winchester was staring up into the roof, following a crack in the white surface with his eyes, imagining it leading up to a stretched out finger, a blond strand of hair, and as he closed his eyes, the images of his mother, pinned to the ceiling of Sam's bedroom, flashed before his inner eye, and in the darkness behind his closed eyelids, a dry piece of Dean's heart flaked off and fell back down to the place which he had left, crawling out from his grave, his body healed but his soul ruined, saved by an angel who needed him, already forgotten by a brother who would do better without him. Dean turned in his bed. It was going to be another long night and there was far too little alcohol in his body for him to cope with it.

He had his back turned to the other bed, but he could hear Sam breathing heavily from a place of deep, restful sleep. He focused on listening to Sam's noises, letting his breathing soothe him, in knowing that Sam was calm and safe. He wondered if he was dreaming about Jessica and hoped that the dream wouldn't come to the end of her life. Dean opened his eyes again, imagining the young woman burning, pinned to the ceiling of hers and Sam's bedroom. Trying to shake off the feeling by again listening to his brother, turning in his sleep and breathing deeper and calmly, Dean closed his eyes once more. He didn't have to look at his right hand, lying next to him on the simple madrass, to know that it was shaking slightly. He couldn't afford that. Not now and not ever. He had to get his drinking under control and he needed to be able to sleep without opening the whiskey on the table, which still had the seal on. Dean had seen Sam glancing at the bottle and he took some strange sense of pride in keeping it that way.

He thought about Lisa, but those memories didn't offer any comfort this night. There was a restlessness which seemed to be coming not exclusively from within himself and he seriously doubted that he would be able to keep the promise he had made himself of not opening the whiskey bottle before the end of the week.

The restlessness captured his body, making the bed seem harder than it actually was and formless, hell bent on not adapting itself to the weight of his body. His arms and legs were stiff, scorching from within, as if every nerv was being provoced into giving a reaction. He kept thinking about the events of the last years, of Sam and of everything he had put his little brother through, in all of his ineffictive attempts to keep him safe and, at the same time, keeping him close. He kept remembering all of the people he had known, cared about and loved, and whom he had failed, who were gone or dead. He kept thinking about the choices he had made and the mistakes he had made, referring any good deed he might have accomplished to the good minds of the people around him, and blaming himself for his inability to take care of them and make good decisions. Finally, he fell asleep, and for Dean Winchester, the night was long, consisting of a light sleep, constantly being interrupted as he would turn in his sleep. When the morning came, he thankfully opened his eyes to the new day, seeing his brother, already dressed, sitting by the small table in the kitchen area with a big cup of coffee in a paper cup and a newspaper in front of him. Another paper cup was standing on the other side of the table. Dean threw his legs over the side of the bed and met Sam's eyes. The whiskey bottle stood next to him on the table, in the same place as the previous night. Sam gave him a light smile.


	19. Chapter 19

_SHIELD_

A plane was descending over the capital of the British isles, casting a shadow over the rising sun. Inside of the large structure, several people sat in silence in front of laptops or were caught up in conversations.

"Sir. We have got new footage from yesterday."

A laptop was placed in front of a tall, black, bold man with an eye-patch over his left eye. He gazed at the screen intensely, seeing the same images as Liz Pond had been watching the night before.

"Who is the woman?"

"She has been identified as Charlotte Wilde. She is a librarian at St Pancra's Library in Camden. She lives in Victoria with a room mate, who is abroad for an extended period of time. She has no connection, as far as we have been able to tell so far, to Loki, Thor, the events in New Mexico or to the attack on the Parliament. MI5 are scanning data from her phone and her Internet usage, but nothing noteworthy has come up."

On the screen, Loki turned around, standing on the stairs to the British Museum, to look at Charlotte.

"It seems as if Miss Wilde stands up to Loki... But why doesn't he simply kill her?" Fury asked, looking up at the agent standing next to him.

"There are different theories flying around, both among the British and on our play field. A recurring one is that she knows something about the Crozier. She is responsible for the sections on mythology at her workplace. Another theory is that she was sent there by James Moriarty, possibly to keep track on Loki's whereabouts. She could also simply fulfill the purpose of having knowledge of the human world and their meeting would then be a coincidence."

Fury nodded.

"And she is missing?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alright. I want you in on this, Coulson. Working close to the British."

"Sure."

"And we're meeting this Holmes man?"

"Yes, sir. And, from what I've been told, a... private party."

"And who would that be?"

"A consulting... detective."

"A what? They are bringing in some sort of private detective on a case like this?"

"He is a big thing in England, apparently. He is Holmes' brother and my source tells me he regularly cooperates with the British police, not officially, though. Moriarty has officially declared him as his... favourite enemy, if you will. Both Myroft Holmes and members of the police department value his cognitive skills very high. Apparently, he's somewhat of a character."

"I'm used to dealing with eccentrics."

"He is a highly functional sociopath. I think you'll like him, sir."

Fury looked up at Coulson, who decided that it was a good time to take his leave.


	20. Chapter 20

_The paleness of an Autumn morning, behind coloured sunglasses_

Liz flinched back slightly, as she met her face in the bathroom mirror. She saw a pair of pale blue eyes, floating in faint, ashy, almost transparent skin, stretched out over resting cheek bones, almost hiding a pair of unmoving, soft pink lips, and a few freckles, nearly covered by the thin layer of skin, fading in the direct light in the room. She didn't recognize herself.

Liz turned on the water to the shower and waited for a couple of minutes before she opened the glass doors and stepped inside, after having tested the temperature of the water with her hand. As the water drained her hair and body, immediately soaking her, she imagined it washing of the remaining fragments of her dreams, which had fastened themselves underneath her fingernails, in her scalp and on the skin on her shoulders. She felt them being rinsed off her as she watched the lather disappear down the drain along with several strands of light brown hair, which she combed out with her fingers. When she had stepped out of the shower, dried her hair and body, and put on some mascara and coloured her eyebrows, she looked in the mirror again. Combing back the wet strands of hair from her face, she gazed at her blue eyes, which under the illusion of the colour added around them, appeared brighter. The warmth from the hot shower had awaken her slumbering skin and a couple of new freckles could be seen on blushing cheeks. She left her apartment a while later, a pair of amber coloured, pilot sunglasses shielding her eyes from the strong sunlight, which woke her skin as the hot water had done. She walked down the street, a faint smile on rosy lips, a light breeze which only carried with it a few traces of last night's cold.

When she turned right onto Watling Avenue, Burnt Oak Station being made visible further down the road, her mobile phone rang. Liz picked up the phone and looked at the screen. Behind the dark glasses, a shadow passed over her eyes as the wind found a hidden layer of coldness from the previous night, which passed over her pale cheeks and found its way in underneath the fabric of her jacket. Small particles of frost were formed in the ends of her moist hair and her breath was caught in her throat, behind numb lips, as the world stopped in its turn around the sun for a second, as the decision to answer the phonecall was made. Not that it really was a choice.

Liz picked up the phone from her pocket and pressed the button with the symbol of a phone on it. She held up the phone to her ear, hearing it scratch against the ends of her hair.

"Yes."

A voice could be heard from the other side, distorted by the loudspeaker.

"Ms Pond... I have a job for you."

The voice sounded as if it came from the bottom of a dark well, far beneath the minds and movements of the ordinary people, passing by her as she had stopped on the pavement. It reminded her of the metallic structures and the inhuman creatures of her dream and she could picture them moving beneath her. The voice continued:

"The demon is impatient. He needs to be comforted. A sign of our progress, if you will. We need Ms Wilde to step through the wrought iron gates into the flowering garden, as I'm sure she's already imagining her cage to be. We need her not to see the trees dying around her."

There was a short pause.

"Do you hear me, Pond? I cannot see you, but I can imagine your little mind working, your black fingernails scratching against the palm of your right hand. It's a bad habit, Pond."

Liz quickly stretched out her fingers.

"Don't worry. I have a scenario all thought out for you. Be at Traflgar Square at 11.00."

"You're not coming to Trafalgar yourself, are you?"

"For me to know and you to guess... Keep a look out. You never know who's watching."

After a couple of seconds, Liz realized that the call had been ended. She placed the phone in the pocket of her jacket again and gathered her hair in a ponytail as she continued towards the station. She tightened the elastic with the small skull around the ponytail as she left the sunlight and passed into the shadows underneath the slanting roof of the station.

Charlotte Wilde was slowly waking up. The first sight her eyes met this quiet morning was a couple of steel blue eyes, looking straight at her. Loki stood with his legs apart and his hands on his back, fully dressed in the same armour as the day before, but without the helmet. The sceptre was leaning against a concrete pelar next to him. He waited as she sat up, noticing that she was no longer chained to the couch.

"Human..."

His voice echoed slightly through the large, dimly lit room, bouncing off the few pieces of furniture, consisting of the couch on which Charlotte was sitting, a small, wooden table next to it, an old desk, a blue office chair and some scattered, steal shelves.

"What do you remember of me? Don't lie. I will know it."

Charlotte couldn't speak even if she had wanted to. Her mouth felt as if it had been rinsed with desert sand. She opened her lips slightly, but no words came out, just a faint, strained sound from the back of her throat. Loki's eyes laid on her, demanding her to speak, but silencing her at the same time. Charlotte wondered if this was how he imagined the liberation of mankind to be; a silenced scream, until your voice would be lost and you would lower your chin, relax your eyelids and let go of your words.

She refused to let that happen.

Looking slightly to the left of Loki, she cleared her throat of dry sand and found her missing words, like grabbing a leaf floating just under the water in a flowing stream, and the words came pouring out from her, as water down a fall:

"You are a fallen god, a would-be king, claiming the right to a throne of Earth. You believe the humans to be beneath you, even though this must be your rightful place, to live among us, as you look down at us from your imaginary tower, as solid and real as the armour on your chest and the horned crown on your head, even though even you must know that it wasn't for this you were cast out, to lead, but rather to fall into place. You haven't found your rightful place yet, would-be god."

"I am a god, silver tongued creature, and no matter how you spin your words around those black nailed fingers, nothing you say can change that."

"It doesn't matter who you are or who you claim to be. The human race can't be subjugated into following you."

Loki smirked.

"Oh, I am just getting started..."

"Don't you see? It does not matter what you do. Many have tried before you."

"There is no one like me."

"You still don't understand. This isn't about you. This is about us. We can't be opressed or controlled. Our freedom can't be limited too long without us rising against our opressors, fighting against the attempts to restrict us, no matter the cost. Study our history. Have you done that? When was the last time you came down to Earth, Norse god?"

The steel grey eyes flickered.

"What do you know of the others?"

"Who?"

A blue light flashed by on her right and the concrete wall just next to her head shattered. A few pieces of hard, crumbled concrete fell down into her hair. Loki lowered the sceptre.

"You work with the King of Hell, named Crowley, and a human. That's all I know."

"Did Crowley not visit you?"

"He did and he drugged me with something that made me think I had just dreamt everything... until I found his business card."

Charlotte put her hand outside of her pocket on a reflex. She looked at Loki, hoping he hadn't noticed. The norse god smiled.

"How... indiscrete of him... Why were you at the museum?"

"I work at St Pancras' library so I got an invitation. I did not know you would be there. If I would, I wouldn't have come."

"Are you sure of this? Curiousity is one outstanding trait of your race."

"I'm confident."

"I have no further need for you. There is just one thing I need you to help me with."

Loki's steel eyes smiled.

"John! John!"

A voice from the other side of a pleasant dream, shaking him slowly awake, as if the sound waves were rocking him gently in his sleep.

"Wake up, John! What are you waiting for?"

"Dawn...?"

A flash of light from the other side of closed eyelids, making him squeeze his eyes shut and cover them with the back of his hand, as the dark curtains covering the windows were abruptly pulled apart, exposing the room to sunlight, poaring in through the glass, covering the whole room in a sudden wave of warmth and light, making John feel as if he were drowning. He complemented his closed eyes and the hand hardly covering his eyes with his blanket, which he pulled over his head, only leaving the scalp of his head to be lit by the sunlight. He realized off course that he looked absolutely childish, but, what other method were there, against an overly excited Sherlock Holmes. A sudden thought flashed through his mind and he pulled back the blanket and looked up at his friend, who was watching him, standing next to the foot of his bed, a ridiculous smile on his face which struck John as highly out of character, but apart from that... He studied his friend's eyes, hoping he wouldn't notice, confident that he did. The pupils looked normal. John would probably have sank back down into the unpresedented bliss of a quiet slumber an early morning which he had been enjoying, if it hadn't been for another, previously unseen event. Sherlock Holmes was balancing a cup of tea in his hand. John's cup. He didn't trust Sherlock with any sorts of beverages after the Baskerville incident, but this was hardly the time for experiments; the exception being if he had invented a truth serum that he wanted to try on Moriarty, but even if he would be capable of doing that, he never would. What would be the fun in that? No, the more likely theory was that Sherlock, bored out of his mind, had found the case of a lifetime and couldn't wait to sink his leather cloathed hands into its deepest, darkest, hidden corners to lure out, or drag out, its secrets and expose them to the light. And for this, he needed his doctor, his blogger... and friend.

John blinked against the sunlight. He was lying on his side, facing the wall, and Sherlock was standing by the bed, partly blocking his view of the window. The sunlight streamed around him.

"Quickly now, John! We have a god to expose. Mycroft's send a car. It should be here in eight minutes, considering the morning traffic."

Sherlock put down his cup on his bedside table and left the room.

"Are you gonna wear clothes this tme?"

"I might as well."

"Don't be so quick to decide. The readers would probably enjoy if you didn't. We could bring a photographer."

"Due try to be a bit serious about this."

John grabbed his tea cup on the way to the bedroom door. He took a zip and then put it down again. Cold. Oh, well. You can't demand too much.

"Serious?" he asked Sherlock, leaning against the door opening. The other man was standing in front of the mantelpiece, putting on his coat which he had thrown over his chair when they got home the previous night.

"This is the case of a lifetime and I need my blogger alert, adherent, attentive... John!"

John was shrugged awake and realized he had fallen asleep again.

"Well, then, maybe you should have let me sleep some more. Not all of us function soly on air and mysteries."

"No time to wait!"

Sherlock walked up to John, grabbing the shorter man by his shoulders.

"A divinity with a god complex, a disappearing ghost, agents with black fingernails and, in the middle of this, pulling the strings, Moriarty..."

"You are having the time of your life, aren't you?"

"Who wouldn't?"

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, an unpatient, infectious smile in his eyes.

"Alright. Let me grab some clothes." John left his friend, who had put on a pair of leather gloves and who hardly could stand still while waiting in the living room, and walked into his bedroom again. The sun shone through the window in a soft, warm stream of light, covering half the room, waking the small particles of dust, floating in the air in their fixed positions. Ignoring the need of a walk with the vaccum cleaner which the dust hinted at, John walked up to one of the closets and picked out a light grey shirt with green stripes, a dark blue knitted cardigan and a pair of black trousers. Hearing Sherlock pacing on the other side of the door, he took a quick tour to the bathroom before putting on his clothes. He had hardly buttoned the last button on his cardigan before he heard a car stopping outside.

"John! Adventure awakes!"

John saw his image in the mirror smile back at him. He walked out of his bedroom, picking up his black jacket and putting it on as he quickly followed Sherlock down the stairs and out through the door. The air was chilly, but the sunlight warm. Together, the two opposite pairs and the different sensations they created on his skin, woke him up. They walked up to the black car waiting with the engine on by the side of the road and sat down in the backseat. The tingling sensation that the sunlight and the cold air had waken in his skin lingered as John looked out through the window as the car quickly drove through the streets of Marylebone.

The same warm sunlight that lingered over John's bedroom also found its way in through the small window on the second floor of the house at the end of the street. It slowly passed over the armchair, making the red velvet brighter as it awakened its liveliness, reminding it of past days, of half forgotten memories. The clothes which had been tossed over the armrest remained in shadows.

The complete silence of the house was broken, abruptly but carefully, as the bedroom door on the second floor was opened and Malcolm Reynolds appeared in the dorrway. He quietly closed the door behind him and started walking towards the bathroom a couple doors down the hall, but found that he slowed down his step, as his bare feet responded to the sensation of warmth on the floor boards. He stopped for a second, enjoying the unique feeling of sunlight whilst still being indoors, on a still Autumn morning. Behind him, the door creaked and he could sense a movement behind him. An equally warm arm founds its way around his waist and he met his wife's fingers with his, wrapping them around each other. A few blonde hairs tickled his neck. They stood in silence for a few seconds, as the sunlight found its way over the rest of the red armchair.

The phone rang for a second time as Liz walked out from the tube station at (...). She took a quick look at the short number on the display before she answered it.

"Yes?"

"This place really is quiet in the morning. London is holding its breath. You know where to find me."

Ned Warren was looking out through his window, a cup of coffee in his hand. A decision that already had been made was being processed in his mind, as if he hadn't already decided during his long, deep sleep what he was going to do. What he had to do. The only part left now was convinving himself that he wasn't afraid. The stillness of the quiet street and the familiar taste of coffee helped him in this, as if this typical, Sunday morning offered a promise of at least as many like it as had already been. He held the business card in his left hand, gently stroking the thick, somewhat uneven surface.

The plane with the SHIELD agents was met at the airport by several black cars, taking them immediately to Thamsen House. They were met on the sixth floor by Mycroft Holmes in a big, open room with a round table in one end and an open space in the other. One wall in the room was decorated with a long line of windows.

"Welcome to London. I'm Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft shook hands with a tall man with an eye-patch over his left eye.

"I''m Nick Fury."

"Yes, I know. Care to take a seat?"

He indicated the table to the left and Fury and the others followed him there. Fury, Coulson and the other four Americans agent present sat down on one side of the table. Mycroft took a seat on the other side, facing the six agents. Fury decided that some polite phrases couldn't hurt when dealing with the British:

"We are pleased that you've agreed to let us take part this closely in this investigation. I am sure that you can understand why this matter is of greatest importance to us, due off course to our own recent dealings with this Loki character."

"We hope to be able to benefit from this cooperation."

Fury lifted his chin slightly, but didn't answer. Instead, Mycroft continued:

"We have a suspect in custody in this building. James Moriarty calls himself a consulting criminal. I would assume that you have read about him in the material that we sent you?"

"We have."

"This man poses a serious threat to national security. Too bad we can't just kill him." Mycroft chuckled lightly. Fury looked back at him without moving a muscle in his face. Mycroft silenced and cleared his throat.

"We are confident that Moriarty is somewhat involved in the attack on the Palace of Westminister. We have information, as you are aware, that suggests that he is workin together with Loki and another man, who has the strikingly unusual ability to turn up in places out of thin air. It's unneccessary to say, we don't approve of these recent turn of events. Moriarty is mostly silence, as expected, apart from requests to see Sherlock Holmes, his self-proclaimed arch enemy. It seems as if my brother was in need of a new one."

Fury nodded once.

"Could we meet this Moriarty?"

"That can be arranged."

"And how about your brother, Mr Holmes? Is he involved in the case?"

"Events of such unusual character... We do believe we could use his assistance. He is also particularly useful in getting Moriarty to speak. My brother is on his way here, as we speak, along with his business partner, Watson."

"There was no criticism intended, Holmes. We are also looking into the possibility of bringing in civilian manpower to the organization. Let's wait for Holmes junior before we pay a visit to Moriarty. I am sure my people could use a couple of minutes rest."

The tall man leaned back in the chair he was sitting in. He suddenly looked tired, but his eye was as alert, observant and calculating as it always seemed to be.

"I agree. Cup of tea?"

Fury raised an eyebrow and seemed unsure of how to respond for a second before he found his footing again.

"Coffee would be fine."

"I'm going, love!"

Maria Reynolds responded her husband by coming into the hallway, stopping a few feet from him. He had his trenchcoat on and an umbrella in one hand and a black leather briefcase in the other. He looked at his wife and smiled slightly. She smiled back, knowing better than to ask him when he would be back.

"Take care and do your best."

It was a habit of theirs. She always said those word to him when he was about to leave for work. The words had long ago lost the meaning they once had have.

The couple stood almost every morning, facing each other, in the hallway in their home, the distance between them seeming longer for each day, even though they probably stood in practically the same places as they had done the previous days and weeks. Maria worked full time at a marketing agency. but often left the house after her husband and came home before him.

They had moved into the semi-large house at the end of the street with an unspoken idea of children. Maybe this had been more of an instinct, a reflex based on the experiences of those who had come before them, rather than a thought through plan or even a desire for the two of them to fulfill. The words had never been carefully spoken so they never really knew. There was never time, the right moment never seemed to appear, or was never created, found or even looked for.

As they stood opposite each other in the hallway, the distance between them grew, and Malcolm looked into his wife's eyes, and wondered where she was in her thoughts. He put down his briefcase and raised his hand, meeting his wife's hand as she stretched out her hand towards him, and they took a step, covering a part of the distance, and he rested his lips and cheek on his wife's cheek, feeling the muscle in her cheek tense in response, and a slight shift of weight, as she inclined her head towards his.

The moment was brief. She looked at him and smiled, she squeezed his hand and he brushed her knuckles with his thumb. A minute later, he grabbed his briefcase and gave her a warm smile before walking out through the door, the cold air hitting his body, leaving his right hand and his left cheek.

Malcolm walked up to his car, unlocking it with the remote control. The car beeped in response as he pushed the button, the sound echoing in the sharp, slightly foggy, quiet morning air. Malcolm opened the door to the backseat and put his briefcase and umbrella on the seat. He then walked up to the front door and sat down in the car. The radio was broadcasting theories and speculations in lack of any news of the bombing of central London. Malcolm turned down the volume as he backed out from the driveway and started slowly to drive off down the street. He looked back at the house in the rear view mirror and saw his wife standing in the middle of the street, her hand lifted as she waved goodbye at him. He lifted his hand so that she could see him through the rear window. In response, she brought her hand up to her lips and kissed the palm of her hand and blew him a kiss, watching it soar through the air. He watched her and his heart was filled with warmth, as a response to her simple movement , as taking a step down a hallway. Her hand was still raised in the same gesture, when it suddenly turned on its side, as her body folded at her waist, the muscles in her legs gave in and she collapsed on the street.


	21. Chapter 21

_Crossroad demons_

Malcolm pushed down the brake pedal and the clutch with his feet. The car came to an immediate stop. He was out of the car before it had stopped completely, leaving the car door open as he ran the short way back down the street, yelling her name. When he reached his wife's unmoving body, he fell down on his knees beside her.

"Maria! Maria! Please, Maria!"

He lifted her upper body, supporting her in his arms. Her head hang down and he put a hand under her neck and lifted her face towards his and gazed at her pale skin, slightly spread lips and closed eyelids.

He brought her body up to his, holding her towards him.

"Maria, no, no, no, no, no..."

As strucken by a sudden memory, Malcolm brought her down again and put two fingers against her neck. It was silent and still, as an abandoned house.

Panc started to set in. He felt it moving through his body and up to his head, making him dizzy, out of breath.

"I... I... I... Maria... I don't... I don't... No, no, no..."

He checked her pulse with his fingers again, pushing down her skin. Nothing. He held his hand in front of her lips, but couldn't feel a breath. Panic spreading, dizzyness, a few lonely, hopeless tears falling down his cheeks, he picked up her hand and touched her wrist, pushing down hard, without receiving a response.

"No! No! No, you can't, you can't... I don't know, Maria, I don't... No, please help!"

He looked up and screamed down the street.

"Help! Somebody, please! Please, help me! Please, I don't know... No, no, it can't, you can't, no, no, no, please, please, help! Help me!"

He heard a scream. When he felt his body desperately fighting for air, he realized that it was his own. He fell down over his wife's lifeless body, his eyes closed, and saw for his inner mind her standing in the street, her hand raised, blowing him a kiss. The distance between them had been almost covered, only for her to be violently and suddenly jerked from his touch. He looked up again and put his shaking fingers on her neck. Nothing. He screamed, cried, violently, every breath shaking his body.

"No! No! No, plea..."

His cries died out as they were swallowed by his gasps for air. His lungs were fighting for air as his mind was swarming with thoughts, feeling, memories, white, blank spaces, consuming his mind, his being, his existence, the places which used to be Maria.

Not even a minute had passed.

He blinked himself awake and, through violent sobs and pleads, he got up his phone from his pocket. Holding it in a shaking hand, he dialed 999. It wasn't until the phone started ringing that he realized that he had been holding it upside down.

"Crowley."

"I... I need to talk to you."

"Who is this? How did you get this number?"

"My name is Charlotte Wilde. I think you remember me."

"Ms Wilde... What do you need from me?"

"Can we meet?"

"You're an interesting woman, Ms Wilde... Meet me under the trees in Regent's Park in two hours."

He hung up. Charlotte looked at the phone in her hand and looked up at Loki, who smiled, but the smile didn't reach over to where she was sitting on the couch.

Crowley hung up the phone and looked at the display for a second. Charlotte Wilde... He couldn't decide if this was a turn of events that he needed to worry about. He would need to think more about this.

The phone rang again.

"Crowley."

Violent sobs were heard in the backgroud.

"Hello?"

"I... I need help. Please, come quickly! It's my wife, she's... she just collapsed, I don't know what happened, there's no pulse..."

"Mr Reynolds... I wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon. I was planning to come and see you later today."

"What... What are you...? Who are you?"

"I see you at the hospital, Mr Reynolds. I suggest you call an ambulance now."

Crowley hung up the phone. Malcolm started at the number on the display for a few seconds, seeing the number he had just called. '666'. Pushing away the thought, he dialed 999 while stroking his wife's cheek.

"Emergency. Which service?"

"Ambulance."

When the sirens were heard in the distance, Malcolm was kneeling down next to Maria, his hands locked over her chest, pushing down over her silent heart which just a few minutes ago had been beating stronger than it had done for a very long time and he had to waken it again.

The table was decorated with cups of tea and coffee and the agents of SHIELD had taken their places around the table. Fury and Mycroft were sitting opposite each other. Mycroft was leaning back in his chair with a worried look on his face, stroking his forehead.

"If what you say is true..."

"I can guarantee that it is", Fury responded.

"My god... It's much worse than I expected."

"So you knew aboout this?"

"In an organization like ours...One can expect a certain amount of... intervention from outside parties, but if what you're saying is true..."

"This poses a serious threat to both our organisations, Mr Holmes. We need to act immediately but discretely."

Mycroft nodded.

"I will put my best people on this."

"Mr Holmes, with all respect... Are you sure that you can trust your best people?"

Before Mycroft had time to answer, there was a knock on the door before it was opened and Sherlock entered the room, followed by John.

"Ah, Sherlock, finally... Mr Fury, this is...

... Sherlock Holmes", Fury said, as he rose from his seat.

"Yes..." Mycroft sighed, annoyed over being interrupted. "Sherlock, this is...

"...Nick Fury", Sherlock responded as he was walking up to the table.

Mycroft sighed again and leaned back in his seat.

"And this... well, I guess you already know...

"Doctor Watson, yes. I have been asked to, on behalf of the President of the United States, thank you for your efforts in Afghanistan. But, as I've understood it, we also have more recent events to show our appreciation of."

"Thank you, Mr Fury."

Fury turned to Sherlock.

"And the same can be said about you, Mr Holmes. Regarding more recent events, I have understood that you have had contact with the suspect."

"Yes. I'm working on several theories at the moment."

"Several?"

"Seven. Or..."

Sherlock inclined his head and looked over at the agents sitting by the table.

"Six."

"Are you suggesting that my agents are involved in this?"

Fury sat up straighter in his chair, gazing intensely at Sherlock.

"No, you have just lessened that suspicion."

"Mr Holmes, I don't take kindly to your vague answers. You are not here to investigate my people."

"Mr Fury", Mycroft cut in. "We are confident that you have chosen people from your organization that you can trust." He met Fury's gaze, stressing the last clause of the sentence. Fury responded by leaning back in his chair. He turned to Sherlock again.

"What is your take on this situation?"

"Loki is apparently getting outside help to set a plan into motion that has been processed for months. He is not the one we should focus on. He is, at best, distraction."

"Well, this _distraction_ blew up your Parliament."

"Imagine what the other one could do. The man with the plan..."

"Mr Holmes... junior. How nice to see you again."

"Moriarty... I'm afraid I can't say the same."

Moriarty was seated in the same chair as before. He was wearing a white t-shirt and his hair was somewhat greasy, but commed into a flattering hairstyle. His eyes were glowing, as if a ray from a distant star had been painted with oil, as he was watching his new visitors. Sherlock was accompanied by John, Mycroft, Fury and Coulson. The later remained standing by the door.

"Tss, tss, tss... You keep telling yourself that. You'll need me, before this is over, even more than you need me now. And judging by your company, I believe that moment will come quite soon."

"Jim Moriarty, my name is..."

"...Nick Fury..."

"...and I don't take kindly to being interrupted."

Fury sat down on a steel chair in front of Moriarty, just next to the table he was sitting by.

"Mr Moriarty... What are you doing working with Loki? You are dealing with forces that you don't understand and are far from being able to control. Don't misunderstand me, this is not an attack on you. At the moment, be it, just at this moment, we are not interested in your business or your network. We have bigger problems, common problems, that we want to deal with before they get completely out of hand. And we need your help with this."

"You need my help... And why on earth would I help you? What's in it for me?"

"Do you seriously believe that you control Loki? How could you do this, locked up in here? Do you even know where he is or what he is planning on his own?"

"I seriously doubt that Loki is alone."

"Who does Jim Moriarty trust? Or it isn't about trust, is it?"

"Jim Moriarty is a spider", Sherlock stated. "With many threads tied to his legs. The question is how far they reach. Try jerking a few of them, Moriarty, see if they still are attached. Can you feel them?"

Moriarty closed his eyes and raised his head slightly, moving it slowly from side to side, as if he was hearing a melody.

"My ears can still hear and my eyes can still see, no matter how deep into your cavern you drag me." Moriarty looked over at Sherlock. "Can you see your reflection in the darkness, Sherlock?"

"Someone is doing the seeing for you", Fury said. "And when we find out who, you will see just how blinding the darkness can be."

Fury got up from his chair.

"You're a criminal consultant, a provider of plans and solutions, a representant of probability, dealing with an agent of chaos, who have just fallen from the world he knew, into one where he is lost, desperate and alone. Just how bright do you imagine that your distant light shines for him now, in the darkness of the world you have created for him? You try to lure him deeper into it, into the darkness you cherise, but there are other possibilities, other passages to choose, leading him away from you."

Fury leaned down, resting one hand against the cold surface of the table.

"Loki doesn't want a throne, not really. Not as a first priority, at least. I know his kind. He wants to be seen, recognized, cherised, praised, honoured... but also forgiven. He wants to return to the arms of his kingdom. In his heart, Loki doesn't want to step into your darkness. He is mischieveous, not ruthless. He has no desire to rule. And you have no intention of letting him. And soon, when the dimming fog of your alluring words in your absence starts to clear, he will come to realize that too."

"Have you practised that speech for long?"

"Who is the man from Regent's Park?"

The TV in the small hotel room was broadcasting the morning news on BBC. The entire program was devoted to the bombing. Sam was sitting on the footend of his bed, watching the TV, a paper cup of coffee in his hand. Dean was sitting by the small table, looking through the morning newspapers on Sam's laptop. Suddenly, Sam got up on his feet.

"What is it?"

"I thought I saw... The website, they must have this footage."

He walked over to Dean and glanced at the TV.

"Here", Dean said. Sam looked down at the computer screen and pointed at it.

"This one, play this one."

Dean clicked on one of the videos on the screen and soon footage from Piccadilly Cirkus, shot with a handheld camera, was played. The brothers gazed at the screen intensely.

"There!" Sam pointed at the screen and Dean paused the video and leaned back in his chair.

"You're right, Sammy. It's him."


	22. Chapter 22

_Down the rabbit hole_

Malcolm was walking up and down the corridor of the emergency room at the hospital. When he had started, he had gotten to the end of the corridor before he had turned, but his turns were getting shorter and shorter and now he only took five-six steps before he turned around again. His steps were slowing down with every turn.

"Mr Reynolds..."

A doctor dressed in green hospital clothing came up to him. He hadn't noticed that he had stepped out from the room where Maria was lying on a white bed.

"We are doing everything we can, but I'm afraid her changes..."

The world went first black and then white as it disappeared from in front of his eyes and Malcolm found himself on the floor without knowing how he got there and heard his own cries echoing in his ears as his hands shook trying to cover his face from the other man's words and he put one hand on the cold, plastic floor to hold himself up, and his sobs echoed in his head and his heart stopped but kept on beating and an invisible hand was fixating itself on his throat, preventing him from breathing, and he heard the sounds from his desperate gasps as his body was fighting to get air, but he couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, and he pushed the doctor away from him, and he heard a single word being repeated over and over again in his head, and as he regained some control over his breathing, supported by the doctor's relentless hand on his shoulder, the word came out from between his lips:

"No, no, no, no, no..."

Taking quick, deep breaths of air that stung in his throat, he gazed up at the doctor through eyes covered in tears, blinking towards the sharp light of the lamp above him, but only met concerned, pitiful eyes, and the world spun around again and his cry echoed down the hall.

Crowley's coat fluttered behind him in the light breeze. The sun was glistering in the dark blue lining of the fabric. The light didn't reach his face. The time was about nine in the morning and the sun was quite high on the sky. The demon was standing by a pond and the light was reflected on the surface of the water, casting stars of light up into the air and letting them jump around on the surface. The stars hit the crowns of the trees around the pond, where they played with the rays of sunlight which landed on top of and among the still green leaves and the ones that had started to turn red, orange and yellow. The colours of autumn were creeping upwards along the stems and down the branches of the trees, draining the leaves of life, putting them to rest and letting them sleep.

A branch with a few fluttering leaves bended down towards the grass. Crowley raised his hand and watched as the trembling leaves were drained of colour. They crumbled and crackled as they turned yellow and lowered themselves towards the ground, falling into a sleep which would last for months, as they waited for the spring when they would be awaken once more. Crowley raised his hand and at St Bartholomew's Hospital, a shadow passed over Maria Reynold's bed.

Beneath another gathering of trees, just on the other side of the graveled patch, Charlotte was standing. She had been to her apartment before taking the subway to Regent's Park. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a black hoodie with the hood covering her head. She slowly walked up to the demon, her hands in her pockets.

"Ms Wilde... You look well."

"Thank you."

"What have you been up to since the last time I saw you?"

"Chasing rabbits."

Crowley chuckled.

"And what is on your mind?"

"Loki has a question for you. Or more of a message. Call it a threat, if you want to."

"Since when do you run Loki's errands?"

"Since it's a part of a good deal to do so. That's you area, isn't it? Making deals?"

"You've made a deal with Loki?"

"Loki wants to know how the progress of the demon army is going. Apparently, he was promised one by _the human_, as he calls him."

"That sounds more as a question."

"And if you don't deliver on you promise shortly, he will..." Charlotte chuckled. "I can't believe I'm saying this... He will make use of the rainbrow bridge, which should be mended shortly, to journey to Jotunheim and gather the Frostgiants."

Crowley met her gaze. His eyes passed down to the pocket of her hoodie.

"Where is he?"

Charlotte took a few steps back.

"Not where you left him. That's all I know. He's not...

... an idiot, you know", Sherlock cut in before Moriarty had the chance to answer Fury's question. "Why would he tell you about the ghost? Not that he is a ghost, off course."

"Oh?" Moriarty turned to Sherlock. "The master detective has this all figured out, has he?"

"There's a perfectly reasonable explanation to this."

"Tell me...", Moriarty urged him.

"Ned Warren claims that he checked the backseat of the car so, if we would assume, for the sake of the argument, that his statement is true, the man can't have been hiding there. He must have transported himself into the backseat of Mr Warren's car."

"And that's what you call _reasonable_?" Moriarty asked. "Broadening our minds, are we?"

"We have got a visitor from another world", Sherlock responded. "Even when put against the possibility that Warren's memory is incorrect, I don't think the step to considering the explanation that the man manifested himself in his car would be considered that far fetched. I'm working on the supernatural theory at the moment."

"You gotta admit that's sexier."

"Who is he?" Fury's deep voice caught Moriarty's attention and he turned towards the other man, met his deep brown eyes, inclined his head to the side, and smiled, tapping his fingers against his leg.

"I don't know."

Sherlock watched Moriarty's fingers as they continued tapping against his leg in an even rhythm. Fury leaned back in his chair and sighed, as if he was regretting having to make his next statement.

"We have ways to make you talk."

"Oh, Fury, you're just like the others... They have tried that already. It doesn't work on me. Seriously? The head of the United States' most notorious undercover agency and that's the best you can come up with? You don't impress me, Fury. You're just like Sherlock, here. Boring. Luckily, I have found some new toys."

Moriarty leaned back in the steel chair he was sitting in and closed his eyes.

"We're done here. Mycroft?" Sherlock looked at his elder brother, who nodded to one of the guards standing by the door. She opened the door and Sherlock left the room, followed firstly by John and, a few seconds later, by the other men.

Crowley's eyes had turn a darker shade. They were almost black. A red cloud of fog passed over them and Charlotte flinched, as she was reminded of the fear she had felt for this man not more than... Not more than two days ago.

"No, he's not an idiot, but neither am I!" He raised his voice, almost growling at her, and a family and a couple walking past them quickly looked up at the dark dressed man and woman, standing opposite each other. Crowley's eyes met theirs and they quickly continued walking down the patch, casting glances over their shoulder which they hoped or even thought no one noticed, hoping in the most silent places of their hearts that they weren't walking away from a situation where they should have intervened. But the man's almost black eyes with ornaments in the shape of red storm clouds urged them on and the voices in their hearts were silenced by fear. In her mind, Charlotte once again thought that this would be how the subjugation of mankind would take form, a silenced scream until your voice would be lost, and she was filled with purpose, as Crowley spoke to her again:

"Why are you helping Loki?"

Charlotte took another step back.

"A deal is a deal. Like the one you made about not killing humans. And you keep the deals you make. Even if it stings."

She took another step back, closing her right hand in her pocket, bending her fingers towards the palm of her hand. With her left hand, she stroked the surface of Crowley's business card.

"What do you think, _human_? Should I give him his army?" Crowley reached out a hand towards the branch with the dead leaves fluttering in the breeze above him. He picked one of the yellow leaves from the tree. The lifeless leaf gave in without any struggle and was caught in his hand.

"Let him slaughter the human resistance as if it was a bacteria?" He closed his hand, crumbling the leaf, before he opened it again and let the pieces fly away in the breeze. One of the pieces circled around Charlotte's leg before it attached itself to the fabric of her jeans.

"Firstly, you have no intention of giving him this army. No matter what your deal is with Loki, it can't be worth sacrificing an entire legion of demons for it. Secondly, if you really were convinced that it was that easy to subjugate the humans, you would have done it already. Something is holding you back, keeping you from trying to take on the world. And I do have a little theory on what that could be."

"Really? You are becoming very familiar with something that you two days ago knew nothing about."

"Not exactly true. I work with mythology, you know. It has always fascinated me. Call it a hobby."

"Everyone needs a hobby."

"What's yours?"

"You don't want to know." A dark shadow passed over Crowley's eyes. "Think you have wandered deep into Wonderland? You have hardly walked through the door, love. Now, what is your theory?"

"If there are demons and a Hell, there must be angels. Where is the one who is supposed to rule Hell, by the way?"

"Careful, human. Don't ask questions if you aren't sure that you want to know the answer."

Charlotte decided to follow his advice this time.

"So there are angels?"

"Best of luck making it out of this..."

And with those words, he was gone, as if he had been swallowed up by the air around him. Charlotte quickly looked around her, but Crowley had disappeared. Confused but also revealed by his sudden departure and satisfied with the outcome of the meeting, she decided to leave. Charlotte walked around the gathering of trees towards the bridge over the lake, stretching her hand up and touching one of the yellow leaves as she walked by it, sensing a pulse in the leaf, as if the demon hadn't completely managed to drink the life out of the creature.

Sherlock was pacing Mycroft's office. He held his hands up in front of his lips with the palms resting against each other. John was sitting by the big, round table in dark oak together with Fury, Coulson and Mycroft.

"Well, that was surprisingly helpful", Fury pointed out. "I suppose it was his intention to give away parts of his plan."

"Naturally", Sherlock stated without looking at the others.

"I assume you're referring to the part about wanting to help us, as he put it", Mycroft smiled with his gentle, almost purring voice.

"A man like Moriarty doesn't do _helping others_", Fury answered. "It's hardly a notion he has familiarized himself with."

"It's safe to assume he's excepting to get something out of this", Coulson said.

"I'm afraid he wants to make us more desperate before he finally reveals what it is" Mycroft continued.

"Did you see his fingers?" John cut in. The other men looked over at him, with the exception of Sherlock, who continued looking straight ahead as he paced the room.

"He was tapping them against his leg. I think it was Morse code. Three sixes."

The room went silent for a few seconds as they contemplated this.

"Is he trying to be funny?" Mycroft asked.

"Three sixes..." Sherlock mumbled.

"I have seen him before..." Coulson said and turned to Fury. "Do you remember Budapest?"

"You think he was involved?"

"My god..." Mycroft covered his cheek with his hand. "It's worse than we thought."

Crowley found himself standing in a dark, abandoned structure in what once had been an office space in a large building. The only light came from the sunlight finding its way in through the gaps in the plastic covers over the five window openings along the opposite wall and from a couple of small, naked light bulbs hanging from the roof. He was standing in the middle of the room in the middle of a painted circle with a pentagram with five symbols painted around it. A devil's trap, made for capturing demons. In front of him, Dean and Sam Winchester stood looking at him. Crowley closed his eyes for a second before he met their gazes.

"Hello, boys. Seems like everyone wants me today." He looked around him. "Seriously, how do you find these places?"

"Hello, Crowley", Dean greeted him. "What are you up to?"

"Just minding my own freaking business until you two came along!" Crowley growled at him.

"Found some new friends?" Sam asked. "Or what you would call them..."

"That's none of your concern. You're way out of your league, boys."

"You hired us to kill Lucifer, remember?" Dean pointed out.

"And what a marvelous job you did with that."

"He's in his cage, isn't he?" Sam responded. "Not to mention all the demons we have send down to Hell over the years.

"That's not the only thing you've send down to me, now, is it? Missing the cage, Sam? How's your precious little soul coping with its scars after having been Michael's and Lucifer's aggression vent? And Dean? If you ever feel like going back to torturing, you just let me know. They still talk about you down in the torturing chambers, you know. And how's your other brother? Both of you were saved, but Adam will burn forever. Imagine what state his souls is in... If Michael and Lucifer haven't managed to rip it into pieces so many times by now that it cannot possibly mend itself again."

"Don't try to talk yourself out of this, Crowley. We want to know what you're doing here", Dean said.

"Let me go and we'll talk."

Sam chuckled, but Dean just looked at the man standing in the middle of the pentagram with a weary look in his eyes.

"Seriously?" Sam chuckled. "We're not in a hurry. Can you say the same?"

"Stay out of this. For once, stand by the side of the field and watch the adults play."

Sam kept smiling.

"Angels, demons, vampires, Lucifer and all other possible kinds of creatures have thought the same before, including you... when you're not asking us for help."

"Let me get this straight." Crowley turned to Dean. "You have summoned me here, sacrificed some of your brother's precious virgin blood, judging from the bandage around his hand, but you have no idea whatsoever what's going on?"

"What are you getting out of working with Loki?" Sam took a chance and waited for Crowley's answer.

"I'm not going to tell you again: Stay out of this, moose."

"Hey, Sam. Want a beer?"

"Yeah, sure."

Dean walked up to a cooler bag standing by one of the pillars holding up the roof. He opened the box and picked up two bottles of beer. He closed the box and put the bottles down on the lid, opening each of them before walking up to Sam and handing him one of the beers.

"Thanks."

Crowley looked at the two brothers and sighed.

"You can't keep me here forever."

"Why not?" Dean asked. "Would someone miss you?"

Crowley took a couple of steps on the spot, looked down, raised his head again and cleared his throat.

"What do you want?"

"So you are in a hurry?" Dean asked.

"Let's say I have an appointment. Life and death depends on it. The life of a _human_, actually. Would you like another human death on your hands? Or are you already sleeping badly enough at night?"

"Which human?" Sam asked.

"Not your type. You like blondes, don't you?"

Sam's lips tightened, but he didn't respond.

"Just like your mother... Tell me, was it Jessica's or your mother's face you saw as she burned on the ceiling?"

The muscles in Sam's arms tightened and he closed his fists. Crowley raised his neck, a challenging, amused, but also determined look in his eyes. The fingers of Dean's hand closed around Sam's arm and his younger brother relaxed under his touch and turned away from Crowley, who addressed Dean:

"So, not moose, how long do you think it will take until your brother is at my neck? And not in a good way."

"Don't you worry about me", Sam cut in. Crowley continued:

"Where is your pet angel these days? Let him our of your sight, have you? It must take something of quite grand proportions to keep him away from this one..." He winked at Dean.

"Something like... a war in heaven? I heard things have gotten pretty nasty there since you came around and upset the natural order of things, or what ever it is that the angels call it."

"Serves you perfectly, I would imagine", Dean responded. "The angels are too busy with their own problems at the moment to worry about Earth... or you."

"Oh, wait... A prophecy! A vision!" Crowley held his hands up in front of him and looked away into the distance, as if he was seeing something in front of him. The brothers watched him impatiently, waiting for his little charade to end.

"I see... enslaved humans... and weeping angels."

"And the king of Hell harvesting souls?" Dean suggested.

"Why do you always think the worst of me? Imagine how much fun we could have together."

"We have very different ideas of fun", Sam pointed out. Dean continued on the same subject as before:

"You don't want this Loki guy ruling the earth. So that's not what you're getting out of this. Has he figured that out yet?"

"Did your god die and make you an expert on despotic plans?"

"I only need to know you as well as I do."

"Regarding plans for world domination, I'm not sure who you should be more worried about; me or your boyfriend. I'm hearing Castiel's making a name for himself in Heaven after Michael's departure."

"The war in Heaven concerns you?"

"Everything concerns me! I swear, boys, something I'm wondering if it hadn't been better if Lucifer had risen again and killed all the black eyed and winged creatures."

Dean nodded.

"Can't be easy being alone in this?"

"As I said before, I'm not stupid. You need a bit more then your fake sympathy to make me tell you boys more."

"We were having such a nice time and then you have to ruin it", Dean said.

Crowley remained silent. When he spoke again, his voice was a low growl.

"You think you know the world by now. You have no idea what forces you're up against and who you're making your enemy."

"They don't know us", Dean said with emphasis.

"Petty humans... You keep overestimating your importance, mistaking good luck and support from others with heroic, saint-like qualities. Even if you keep on insisting to refuse to die, you are in fact mortal and rely on your god or your friendly neighbourhood angel to lift you from your newly dug graves. Even if you're technically dead by now, you keep walking around above ground, with soil under your nails, your dead hearts still beating and a weary look in your eyes."

Crowley smiled.

"That's my exit."

Behind the brothers, the plastic covers caught fire. The sudden rush of light from the flames outshone the intake of sunlight from the bare window openings. Dean and Sam crouched down to escape the flames and the heat. Suddenly, the room was flooded with water from the sprinklers in the roof. The water turned the bright flames into thick, foul smoke and black, melting residues of plastic. It also poured over Crowley who looked down at the slowly fading paint on the floor, making up the outline of the devil's trap. Sam looked up at Crowley and ran up to him, but before he had reached the demon, he had teleported himself from the building. Sam grabbed the air where Crowley had been standing a mere second earlier and punched the air, yelling with frustration. Behind him, his brother did the same.

At St Bartholomew's hospital, Malcolm was sitting next to his wife's lifeless body. A tube was attached to her mouth, a needle with an IV was connected to a vein in her arm, electrodes were attached to her upper body and a machine was monitoring her heart frequency. Another one was helping her breathe. _Making _her breath. Malcolm was holding his wife's hand, slowly stroking her fingers, over and over again. When the door to the room was opened, he looked up.

"Mr Reynolds... We are doing an MRI so we need to take your wife away."

Instinctively, Malcolm grabbed Maria's hand tighter before he slowly let it go. He nodded to the nurse who was waiting by the end of the bed. He put Maria's hand on the bed and watched them roll the bed out of the room. He remained sitting on the chair in the now suddenly big and empty room, feeling completely out of place. A voice was heard from the open door:

"Mr Reynolds..."

He looked up and saw a young nurse standing in the doorway, A dark blonde strand of hair had fallen down over a blue-green eye. She smiled weakly at him. She was holding a journal in her hands and had a stressed look on her face.

"You should take a break. Go down to the coffee shop and get something to eat. She won't be back for at least an hour, probably longer."

With those words and another weak smile, she was gone. He heard the sounds of the plastic soles of her shoes against the floor as she quickly walked down the corridor. Malcolm hesitated for a few seconds before he decided to take her advice. He felt alone and misplaced in the big room which suddenly seemed empty without the hospital bed. The room was waiting for its rightful proprietor and Malcolm felt like an impostor, as if someone at any time would come in and ask him what he was doing there. He wasn't the one who was sick.

Malcolm left the room and passed several nurses and a couple of doctors on his way to the elevator. He kept reading the signs hanging on the walls and from the roof as he walked past, searching for an indication of where the x-ray rooms were, where they had taken Maria. Knowing where she was, learning to find his way around the hospital, would lend him an increased feeling, even thought it might only be a fragment, of control.

As he walked past the nurses' office with its glass walls, where several people dressed in hospital clothing were working in front of computers or were involved in discussions, he wondered if he was supposed to tell them where he was going, in case there were any development. He stopped by the open glass door, waiting to be noticed. A nurse looked up at him.

"I'm Maria Reynolds' husband... I'm going to the coffee shop. Could you tell me if something was to happen? Could I leave my cell phone number?"

The nurse standing in front of him met his gaze with steel blue eyes.

"Sure. We'll call you, if we can."

Malcolm stretched his hands into the pocket of his jacket and picked up a business card. He handed it to the man in front of him who took it and nodded. Malcolm gave him a nod back and continued walking down the corridor. He imagined a future close at hand when he would navigate through these halls easily, without even have to look at the signs leading the way or look up when turning around a corner.

When he got to the line of elevators, one was waiting there for him. He stepped into it after a woman in a fleece jacket and sweatpants who was holding a wallet in her hand. The elevator travelled down to the ground floor and the doors opened. Malcolm stepped out after the woman and walked in the direction of the coffee shop. He walked through the glass doors and waited in line to get a cup of coffee.

The cafeteria was rather quiet this Sunday morning. Ned paid for his coffee and sat down in a sofa which covered the entire wall. There was a small table and a chair on the other side of the table. Ned sipped on his hot coffee and looked at a newspaper lying in front of him. The front-page showed the ruins of the Palace of Westminster and the headline read _London under attack_. He started reading the article. It focused on the fact that the bomber seemed to be an alien visitor with possible connections to the recent events in New Mexico. He wondered if someone had leaked to the press or if the journalists simply had drawn the conclusions themselves. After all, all it required was some knowledge of Norse mythology or at least some imagination. The world's attention was turned towards the ruins and the stolen artifact from the British Museum. It was holding its breath in anticipation, waiting for Loki's next move. _The police responded with silence_, according to the article. An idea, or more of an inkling, started to form in Ned's mind. The world's full attention was turned towards London and Loki, holding his scepter over the city with an outstretched hand. But why was he silent? What was his plan? How could he be responsible for an attack which had clearly taken months to plan? How did he fit into the remaining steps? What was happening in the shadows, where no one was watching?

"Fancy a chat?"

Malcolm looked up and saw a man standing on the other side of the table. The man sat down on the empty chair. He had been holding a white cup of coffee and he placed it on the table in front of him. The stranger was in his forties and was dressed in a dark shirt and tie underneath a dark blue overcoat. His dark brown eyes smiled. Malcolm looked into his eyes and found it difficult to look away. They were dark and deep, as if they had seen things he couldn't imagine during far more years than his.

"Who are you?"

"You called me, mate."

Malcolm reconised the voice and realisation slowly sank over him, like a shadow creeping across your restless body as you lie awake in your bed at night, watching the movements of the moon and the rising sun being cast over the cover.

"You were the man on the phone..." Malcolm tried to recollect the details of their conversation. "You knew my name. You said that you would speak to me later. You knew... What have you done to Maria?!"

Several people in the cafeteria turned around to look at the well-dressed man with the bewildered, furious look in his eyes and the equally smartly dressed man sitting opposite him, calmly leaning back in his chair. Crowley didn't seem to notice, but nevertheless patiently waited for the other guests to turn their attention back to their own cups of coffee and hushed conversations. After a few seconds, he answered Malcolm:

"Nothing. I haven't done anything to your wife. As you know by now, she suffered a heart attack. She's human, those things happen to those pathetically weak bodies you're walking around in, no matter how safe, protected and invulnerable you feel in your little suburban Disneyland at the end of the street."

Crowley became silent, gazing at Malcolm's bewildered expression. He continued:

"I had a bad morning."

"What do you know about this? How do you...?" Malcolm paused, realising that he should probably get up from his seat and walk away, but finding it impossible to do so. "Who are you?"

"The name's Crowley. I'm here to make you an offer."

"An offer?"

"To help your wife. That was why you called me, wasn't it?"

"That was a mistake..."

"Yes, I realise that. A curious one, considering that I was planning on coming to see you here. But you called me first..."

"I don't need to listen to this", Malcolm stated, but stayed in his place; his will to leave overshadowed but a small flame of hope, taking flickering breaths for air, desperate for a new box of matches to light up its weakened, dying or extinct companions.

"I can heal Maria. That is my offer to you."

Crowley looked down at the table and the small, glass container with sugar standing in the middle of the table lifted from its place and soared over to his cup of coffee, standing on the table half a foot away. Malcolm stared at the sugar container as an invisible hand lifted the silver spoon resting in the grains, scooped up a spoonful of sugar and balanced it on its own as the spoon was elevated before it tipped the sugar into the coffee. It continued by lowering itself into the cup to stir the hot liquid before it with a cling came to rest against the inside of the cup. Crowley looked up at Malcolm and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could start, his phone rang. Crowley sighed.

"Everyone really wants me today. Just a second, mate."

He picked up his phone from the inside pocket of his coat and answered it:

"This is the king."

He waited for a few seconds.

"No, that is not so."

A few more seconds passed.

"Well, you can tell him that..."

Another pause. A frown started showing on Crowley's forehead. He turned to Malcolm:

"You leave work for a few days, and..." Another short pause. "No, I wasn't talking to you!" A longer pause, accompanied by a deepening frown and a darker shade in the demon's eyes.

"Listen, you little insect, you tell those lazy bastards that twelve hour shifts are a piece of cake compared to what they had to do before I ran the place! If they don't stop complaining, I'll come right back down there to give them some practical reminders on how to do their jobs!"

Crowley listened to the other speaker again.

"You can't be serious? The so called prince is recruiting my boys?!" A silence which this time only lasted for barely two seconds before the demon continued:

"I understand that he's not _there himself_, you complete moron! Did you forget to start thinking when you got out of bed this morning?!" He turned to Malcolm again:

"You see what I have to put up with?"

Addressing the man on the phone, he said:

"You deal with this work hours related problem this instance or you can consider yourself demoted to cleaning up the chambers! I'll take care of the black haired walking disaster."

Crowley hung up the phone and turned to Malcolm again:

"As I was saying, I can heal your wife."

"Are you a doctor?" Malcolm's question was served with an aura of uncharacteristic cynism.

"No, I can do better than that. Let me show you. What have you got to loose?"

"You're not touching my wife."

"If I had a penny... Take a walk with me. I'll promise you, I will convince you to take my deal."

Crowley got up from his chair and waited for Malcolm, who looked at the other man. Ambiguous thoughts and feelings were occupying his mind. In the end, the darkest, most desperate part of his mind conquered the logical, reasoning thoughts, as he looked into his heart, letting the love for his wife fill his being, and as he got up from his seat, leaving his almost untouched coffee and following the other man through the cafeteria, the blood being pumped out from his heart turned a darker shade of red.

The two men walked out through the glass doors, their reflections dancing in the glass, making Malcolm slightly nauseous. As he met his own gaze in the reflection, Crowley looked up at him:

"Thought I wouldn't have a reflection, did you? That's vampires."

He started walking down the corridor in front of Malcolm, the light from the glass doors and walls making up the entrance spreading around his dark contours.

"What are you?"

Crowley turned around without stopping, extending his arms out from his sides:

"I am your savior."

When they came outside, Malcolm noticed to his surprise that the air hardly felt cold. Then again, he couldn't either feel the sun on his face. The only physical sensation in his body was that of the sun reaching his eyes, blinding the right one while the left one was left undisturbed. They walked around the corner of the big building, stopping by one of the side entrances, intended for deliveries to the cafeteria. Crowley stopped in the shades underneath the small roof extending from the building, rubbing his hands together.

"Alright. For this demonstration, we need a damaged body. Here's one I made earlier."

He reached down into the bushes sealing of the place from the grass extending behind him and picked up a small bird. The small body rested in the palm of his hand. Its brown feathers fluttered in the breeze and the body shook slightly. The bird's small, black eye was half closed and it gave of subdued whimpers. Malcolm looked down at the bird with the shattered wing, gasping in the man's hand, and looked up at Crowley. The man showed no expression as he waited. With the sounds from the bird's quiet whines in his ears, Malcolm nodded.

"Heal it..."

Crowley held his left hand over the bird and snapped his fingers. Almost instantly, the bird opened its eyes wide. It tried its wing, shaking it slightly, before it got up on its feet and flew away, high up into the air. Malcolm looked after the bird as it soared out of sight. Crowley's voice interrupted his thoughts:

"Normally, I would ask for your soul, but you have something of greater value to me, which would cost you less."

"What are you?"

"A maker of deals and agreements. A provider."

"What would you do with my soul?"

"Leverage. To keep the balance."

"What are you?"

"If you really must know..."

"I do."

"A demon."

Malcolm chuckled, as the absurdity of the situation overcame him.

"Not a guardian angel?"

"The angels don't interfere with human lives."

"And you do?"

"Occasionally."

"Did you hurt my wife?"

"No."

"You're only taking advantage of the situation...?"

Crowley pointed at himself.

"Demon..."

Malcolm bit down on his tongue, afraid of what would come out if he let it speak. He took a deep breath before he found his words.

"How could you help Maria?"

"I could make her fly..."

"A total recovery?"

"Yes."

"And what is your price?"

Crowley smiled.

"Nothing that will sting... I need you to go in to work today."


End file.
